Girl With A Red Umbrella

By Justaskalice & Spanglemaker9

Summary: Paris, 1950. Rosalie Hale went to Paris to study, then vanished without a trace. Her friend
Bella has come to find her. Following a trail of clues left behind by Rose’s letters, Bella searches for
Rose and might find herself.

Chapter 1

Paris, 1950

The war is over and Paris is alive again with artists, writers and musicians. Rosalie Hale has
come abroad to study in this exciting and romantic city, but instead she vanishes without a
trace. Now her best friend, Bella has come on her own to find her. She teams up with Rose's
spunky roommate, and they are joined in the search by an American businessman, a battle-
scarred reporter, and a handsome painter with his own mysterious past. Following a trail
of clues left behind by Rose's letters, they plunge into the dark side of the City of Lights.
Who is Royce? What secrets is he hiding? Why did Rose really leave? The search for Rose
and life in Paris just might change Bella in ways she never imagined.

*****

I was meant to live in Paris, Bella. From the second I stepped onto its busy streets, I felt as if
the part of me that has always been missing was found. I can't even explain it, except to say
that everything is so colorful here, so loud, so vibrant. Even after the horrors of occupation,
the Parisians go about their business, breathing new life into crumbling buildings and
picking up where they left off years ago. They call it joie de vivre. I feel truly alive here, for the
first time since Aunt Helen died. I'm home.

}-----

The train let out a bellowing shriek as I jumped to the platform, clutching my small case to
my chest. Smoke filled the station and cast my surroundings in a ghostly light. People
budged around me, jostling me this way and that as I struggled to get my keep on my feet.
After just over a month of solid travel, I was exhausted and disoriented, not to mention
completely alone. I had never even traveled as far as Seattle by myself before, let alone
across the globe. It was an experience I was not in a hurry to relive.

Standing in the middle of the train station wouldn't make me less alone, though, so I
summoned my last ounce of courage and set out for the street, using my elbows to
maneuver when necessary. I found a clear piece of pavement and set my suitcase down,
using it as a seat as I dug through my pockets for the letter I had been re-reading
compulsively since New Year's Day.

The sender, a young woman by the name of Alice Brandon, had written to me urgently. Her
roommate and my best friend, Rosalie Hale, had gone missing. Alice had searched for Rose's
family, but of course she had none, only me. My address was among the things Rose left
behind, and with no other leads, Alice had contacted me.

It was the first news I'd heard from Paris since October.

Rose's sudden drop in correspondence had worried me, of course, but we were half a world
apart, and my mother assured me that such things sometimes happen. She was living the
life she was always meant to live, one that a small town girl like me would never
understand. Rose had always been bigger than me, bigger than Forks. The easy way she had
settled into her new French life was proof of that. Despite it all, I had been hurt at the
thought of Rose outgrowing our friendship and leaving me behind.

When I received Alice's letter, my fears came rushing back. The thought of Rose alone and
frightened somewhere in Paris was too much to bear, so I had quietly made travel
arrangements. I withdrew all my savings and obtained a passport, and one cold night in
early February I set off, leaving a letter for my parents explaining where I had gone and
promising to write when I arrived in Paris. Asking permission was out of the question, so I
would simply beg forgiveness.

I scanned the familiar words again, seeking out the address Alice had given me. I would
have to ask directions and pray that Alice was home when I got there. Steeling myself once
again, I looked around for a friendly face. A middle-aged woman with ash blonde hair stood
near me, and I approached her timidly.

"Please, ma'am, could you tell me how to get to the sixth arr-arron-disse-ment?" The French
fell awkwardly from my lips, and the woman merely stared blankly at me.
"Je ne comprends pas. Parlez-vous français?" she fired back rapidly.

"I don't… English?" I stuttered. She shook her head and strode away. I felt tears pricking my
eyes and my shoulders started to shake.

"Hey there, kid, what are you crying about?"

I turned toward the voice and saw a tall man with an open, friendly face smiling down on
me. His accent was American, and there was something about his honest brown eyes that
made me trust him.

"I need directions to my friend's apartment, but I don't speak French," I explained, trying to
keep the quaver out of my voice.

"Well, now, that's not so hard," he said, deep dimples appearing on either side of his wide
smile. "I think we can handle that. There's a stand nearby that sells maps, why don't we
head down there and you can get your bearings."

I nodded gratefully, wiping the tears from my eyes and following him across the street. A
small part of me screamed that to follow a total stranger into an equally strange city was
foolhardy in the extreme, but mostly I just felt relieved that someone else was making a
decision.

We got to a small newsstand, and the man pulled out a few coins and traded them for a map.

"Oh, I can pay for—"

"Nonsense," he said, waving me off with a large paw. He was an imposing man, built like a
quarterback. "Where did you say your friend lives?"

"Sixth arrondisement."

Snapping the map open wide, he pointed. "We're here, you see?" I nodded. "And this right
here, that's where you're headed. Do you have an address?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you think you can find the place? I'd be happy to walk you there."

"No, thank you," I said quickly. I was willing to accept a map from him, but allowing him to
lead me to Alice's apartment when the only thing I knew about him was his nationality was
going too far. I could hear my father now.

"You're too trusting, Isabella." He'd shake his head and twitch his mustache angrily. "Men
are only after one thing."
With a wave to my new friend, I walked away, map in hand. I was conscious that every
moment I stared at the map I looked more and more out of place, but I wasn't so concerned
about looking like a tourist that I wanted to get lost before I ever found my way to Alice's.

I found the nearest subway station and descended into the dark, holding my breath as I
went. I'd never ridden the metro before. When I stopped in New York City to board my ship
for France, I had stayed firmly above ground. Now that I had finally reached my destination,
I was anxious to get some stability, and if the subway could get me there faster, so be it. I
had never thought longingly of the uncomfortable camp bed in my dorm room before, but a
month spent on trains and ships will make you appreciate even the most minimal of
comforts.

Alice's apartment was in Saint-Germain, on the Rue de Seine. I had a vague idea that it must
be near the river, but I was completely ignorant of the geography of the city. Luckily, there
was a metro map on the flip side of the map I now held. Unluckily, the map made no sense
to me. It looked like a jumble of colored yarn, the separate lines tangled in an
incomprehensible snare.

I stood near the tracks as trains came and went, trying to find a path from where I was to
Alice's neighborhood. Every time I thought I had it figured out, I would flip back to the city
map and become hopelessly confused again.

"Mademoiselle?" A police officer approached me after about ten minutes, and his
moustache and stern stare reminded me so much of my father that I almost broke down
again. It was a feeling I was beginning to associate with trains. "Peux-je vous aider avec
quelque chose?"

"I don't speak French," I sighed, biting my lower lip. Again, the gesture reminded me of my
father. He hated when I chewed on my lip. Were my parents worried about me? Had they
received my letter? It would have to wait until I could find Alice. I cleared my throat and
said, very slowly and loudly, as if speaking louder would make him understand, "I need to
get to Saint-Germain. Can you help me?"

"Ah, Saint-Germain!" He broke into a wide smile, and gestured to my map. "Saint-Germain-
des-pres. Comprenez-vous?" He traced his finger from where we were down a red line to
several stops away.

"Oui," I said, smiling for the first time in days. "Oui, merci."

"Au revoir, jolie."

I bought a second class ticket and found a seat on the next train, keeping my suitcase in my
arms and my map safely tucked in my pocket with Alice's letter. The other passengers in my
car gave me odd looks. One woman, her hair tucked up in an elegant knot that I could never
in a million years reproduce, eyed the empty seat next to me with disgust before lowering
herself into it.
"Bonjour," I murmured, glancing up at her. Her perfectly painted lips lifted in a sneer, and
she turned, very deliberately, to face the other way. I hugged my suitcase tighter.

"Saint-Germain-des-pres! Saint-Germain-des-pres!" A loud, deep voice announced my stop

and I stumbled out of my seat, barely avoiding stepping on my seatmate's costly looking
shoes on my way to the door. I heard her snort and mutter Americans under her breath.

"Not far now," I said aloud, dropping my arm and straightening my skirt as I climbed back
up to street level. "You can do this, Bella Swan."

The wide boulevard was almost more terrifying than the crowded train station had been,
but this time I was prepared. I didn't let myself compare my surroundings with the quiet
streets of my campus in Seattle, and I refused to be distracted by the way the women all
seemed infinitely more sophisticated than me. I was holding myself together fairly well
until I turned up the Rue de Seine and passed a leggy blonde wearing a steeply angled hat,
half her face shadowed by the brim, her dress wrapped tightly around her curves.

I glanced down at my plain brown skirt and cotton blouse. No wonder the woman on the
train had sneered. I looked plain and dowdy and out of place. I reached up to touch my hair.
It was tied back in a neat pony tail, but it felt inadequate somehow. Maybe a braid would
have been better.

For the first time, Alice seemed intimidating. She had lived in Paris for longer than Rose,
and from what little Rose had told me about her roommate, she had enough personality to
fill Forks and Seattle together. Her letter had seemed friendly enough, but she was a fashion
reporter for French Vogue. She'd probably take one look at me and turn up her nose, just
like the woman on the train.

My breaths started coming in short gasps, and I felt the telltale burning in my eyes. I
stopped in front of a set of double glass doors marked with the address Alice had given me.
I pulled on one handle. Locked. I tried the other, pulling with all my strength, even though I
knew it wasn't going to budge.

"Gosh DARN it!" I shrieked, kicking the door. Weeks and weeks of travel, sleeping curled
around my suitcase and washing my blouses in the sink of my tiny cabin at sea, warding off
the advances of over-solicitous sailors, only to be stopped, practically inches from my
destination, by something as insignificant as a lock? "Why won't you open?" I yelled, kicking
the door again and pulling with all my might.

"Pardon me, mademoiselle." I whipped around, face burning. Behind me was a petite older
woman. Her hair was a delicate shade of… could it be? Pink? I squinted, taking in the rest of
her. She wore a full black skirt and a tailored ivory jacket that hugged her body in a way
that was scandalous considering her age.

"Do you need to get in? Are you visiting a friend?" Her voice was lightly accented, but she
was easy to understand.

"I…I… Alice Brandon?"

"Charmant! You are young Alice's friend?" She extended a black gloved hand daintily. "I am
Madame Beauvais. But you can call me Estelle, eh?" She threw back her head with a throaty
laugh and pulled out a key from the bulging bag that was slung over her shoulder.

"Follow me, follow me," she called over her shoulder, bumping the door open with her hip
and hurrying through the lobby to the lift. "I live next door to Alice. You American girls, you
know how to live, no? I am always asking Alice about her conquests and adventures."

I nodded dumbly and tried to contain my panic. What kind of girl was Alice? I barely had a
moment to contemplate it, as Madame Beauvais was soon pushing me out onto whatever
level the elevator had stopped at and tugging me down the hall.

"This way, ma chérie!" We had almost reached the end of the hall when a door to my left
swung open, and a tiny girl came barreling out.

"Excuse me, Estelle, no time to talk," she called over her shoulder. "I'm late, late, late! Gotta
make like the white rabbit and jump on down the rabbit hole, or my editor will have my
head!"

"Alice, wait!"

The girl pulled up short and whipped around, a look of impatience clearly painted across
her face. I tasted bile as I took in her appearance. Her black dress with its tiny nipped-in
waist and full skirt was unquestionably real silk, and her white gloves and flyaway hat gave
her the look of a Hollywood starlet. She had big grey eyes fringed with thick black lashes
and cropped black hair, a soft curl worked into her short bangs. She raised one manicured
and penciled eyebrow at me and then looked back at Estelle.

"Honey, I don't have time for charity cases. I'm sorry, I really am, but I just can't—"

"I'm Isabella Swan," I blurted, feeling more and more like I was going to burst into tears and
desperately wanting it to be in private. Alice's eyes widened before she broke into a
dazzling smile.

"Well if that isn't the best news I've heard all day! Why didn't you say so?" She opened her
arms and took two quick steps toward me, enveloping me in a tight hug.

She unlocked her door and looked back into the hall. "Ta, Estelle. We'll chat later." With a
wink and a wave, she pulled me into her apartment and closed the door behind her.

"Work can wait," she shrugged, unpinning her hat and setting it carefully on a table near
the door. "Now, can I get you a cup of tea?"
I stared at her for about five seconds and then promptly started to sob.

Chapter 2

I love Paris. I love every inch of this city, in every season, at every time of day, no matter
what the weather. I love Paris.

But bloody hell, it was cold tonight. The Square du Vert-Galant was right in the middle of
the Seine and the breeze was stiff, blowing the fine, misting rain into my face no matter
which way I angled myself. I'd been working on the painting for weeks, though, and I
started it in the rain. The rain seemed…I don't know…important to it. It evoked the mood, it
defined the atmosphere. So as soon as the sun went down and the drizzle began, I packed
up my paints and my easel and the canvas and headed to the Île de la Cité.

I wasn't even sure why I did this to myself. After I spent all day parked on the Seine, turning
out scenes of the Notre Dame and the odd portrait for tourists just to make a few francs,
and most nights at the club playing piano, I still dragged myself out here in the cold and the
rain to paint. And for what? To find something genuine in myself, I suppose. To find a
purpose that wasn't selfish, or spoiled by greed or fear or anger. I came out here to paint in
the hopes of finding something in myself that was good. So what if I never seemed to find it?
Maybe the looking was enough.

I had a decent spot staked out, all things considered. I'd made friends with Jules, who ran
the used book stall, and he let me set up just under the overhang of the roof of his stall.
When I got bored or my hands got too numb, Jules and I shared a smoke and we talked
about books while I flipped through his offerings. Tonight though, the rain had chased off
his customers and he'd closed up early. The drizzle got rid of the lingering lovers. Even the
beggars had abandoned the benches in search of someplace drier.

It was March, but instead of getting milder, the weather had gotten steadily sharper all
week. Tonight there was a damp, bitter bite to the air. My knuckles were aching in spite of
the fingerless knit gloves I'd pulled on. Part of me wanted to just pack it in and go home too,
get warm and dry and maybe drunk. But I had finally slipped into a groove painting the
reflections of the gas streetlights on the rain-slicked pavement and the glints on the wet
wrought iron railing, so I was reluctant to quit now. Maybe if I could just get this bit figured
out, then I could call it a night.

I glanced up from my canvas to look again at the iridescent shimmer of light on the
sidewalk and was irritated to find someone standing in it. She hadn't been there a minute
ago, no one had been there. That's one of the reasons I chose to set up here, people didn't
just wander through this end of the park on their way to someplace else. Since it was at the
very point of the Île de la Cité you had to come here on purpose. At night, in the rain, very
few people did that.

Except, apparently, for this girl, who had taken up residence leaning on the railing smack in
the middle of my composition, her feet marring the reflections of my puddles, her umbrella
right in the middle of my view of the river. I huffed in frustration and crossed my arms over
my chest, waiting for her to move on. She didn't. I lit a cigarette and leaned back against the
corner of Jules' stall and stared daggers at her back, willing her to move, but it didn't work.

I watched her while I smoked and tried to warm up my fingers. Actually, now that I
considered it, the bright red splash of her umbrella over her head sort of worked in the
composition. There was something mysterious and appealing about her slim dark figure in
her black trench coat, with her long dark hair and the little black wool hat perched on the
back of her head. She turned her face a little to the side, as if she was looking for someone,
and I caught a glimpse of pale smooth cheek, the color creamy with a hint of pink.

Unthinkingly, I threw my still lit cigarette to the ground where it fizzled out in a puddle and
I grabbed my brush, smearing it into the alizarin crimson on my palette. Before I knew it,
I'd roughed her in, her black coat, her long swing of dark hair, the bright red of her
umbrella. She mostly looked straight ahead out at the Seine, so I never saw her face.
Occasionally she would look to the right or left, like she was looking for someone, but there
was nothing particularly expectant in her attitude. I decided to paint her like that, her face
slightly turned, to draw the viewer into her story, the same way I found myself drawn in by
that girl.

As I painted, I wondered. Who was she? What on earth had brought her out here alone at
this time of night in the rain? It was late, it was dark, she was young. Was she waiting for
her boyfriend? If so, he hadn't shown up. But something about her attitude didn't look like
she was expecting a man. It was then, as I glanced up at her again, that I noticed the paper
clutched in her right hand. She was reading something, repeatedly. A letter? As I watched I
saw her head drop a little and her shoulders begin to shake almost imperceptibly. Was
she…crying?

Now I was consumed with curiosity. Was she jilted? Was it bad news? If so, why did she
come here at night in the dark to re-read her letter and cry? I wondered for a minute if I
should go over there, see if she was alright, if she needed help. But the selfish needs of my
painting made me hang back. Part of me wanted her to remain a mystery, just like she was
in the painting. And besides, I'd seen enough people cry in my lifetime. I really didn't need
to go seeking out anyone else's sorrows.

I worked in some more viridian to the shadows of her coat, then glanced up at her again to
examine the exact color of her skin.

She was gone.

Where the hell did she go? I spun in a quick circle, surveying the whole of the tiny park, but
she was nowhere. She'd vanished as suddenly and as quietly as she'd arrived. I turned back
to my canvas. Bloody hell. Her figure was central to it now, the visual kick I'd been looking
for all along. And she was gone. I'd have to finish her from memory. I ran a hand through my
damp hair in frustration. The cold and the wet caught up to me in a rush now that my
creative high had passed, so I quickly packed up my palette and paints and folded my easel,
slinging it from it's strap across my back.

As I left the Square du Vert-Galant and headed for the Pont Neuf, I swiveled my gaze to
either side, looking for the girl and that red umbrella, but there was nothing. The streets
were nearly empty, just a few huddled dark figures rushing home to get out of the wet and
cold, just like me. With a sigh, I gave up the hunt and turned towards home, climbing the
steps to the bridge. I pulled my jacket collar up around my neck as I crossed the Pont Neuf,
trying to keep out the biting wind whistling up the Seine.

Making my way down the Rue Dauphine towards home, I tried to put her out of my brain. It
was just some random accident that she ended up in front of me tonight anyway. She didn't
even know I was there, hidden in the shadows of Jules's stand. I had nothing to do with
whatever was bothering her, whatever left her cold and crying next to the Seine…Damn.
Stop thinking about her.

I heard the music as soon as I turned the corner onto Rue de Jardinet, and when I reached
the pale gold house at the end of the street all the shutters were open and light poured from
every window down onto the cobbled road. The front door was slightly ajar and the hum of
voices reached me before I even stepped inside. I pushed in, squeezing around two men
standing in the entryway engaged in a heated debate, arms flailing. I scooted around them,
dodging wildly gesturing hands.

A quick glance through the arched doorway into the parlor to my right showed it was filled
with people. A haze of cigarette smoke hovered near the ceiling. There was a man at the
piano in the corner playing something while a woman in a tight green dress lay across the
top, singing along. His song was competing with the sounds of Louis Armstrong playing on
the record player somewhere else in the house. There was a handful of people, three men
and two women, standing next to the piano, but they were all talking animatedly to each
other, oblivious to the woman writhing on the piano a foot away. In one of the window
seats, half hidden by the curtains, a couple was curled around each other in an intimate
embrace. He had one hand up under the hem of her skirt.

I heard more voices from ahead where the dining room was and others floating down from
the floors above. I sighed in exhaustion. I really wasn't ready to face another gathering
tonight.

"Edward!"

I had hoped to make it to the stairway unnoticed, but the low sultry voice stopped me in my
tracks. I turned with a smile to greet the stunning woman with the upswept caramel hair
making her way towards me. Her dark red cocktail dress hugged every curve on the way
down. The neckline was wide and low, leaving her creamy shoulders bare. She was not
young anymore; she hovered in that perfectly preserved undefined age somewhere in her
late 30's that French women wore so well. Her hazel eyes were shadowed with makeup and
as she looked at me, one penciled eyebrow arched questioningly, her bright red lips curling
in delight.

"Good evening, Esme," I murmured, slipping my arm around her waist when she got within
reach. She tilted her face up to me expectantly and I leaned down to kiss her smooth white
cheek, "Looks like a full house tonight."

She looked around, bemused, as if she'd just noticed the dozens of people milling around
her house.

"This? Just a few friends, darling. Where have you been, mon cher?" she patted my chest
gently, her rings flashing.

"Out painting in the park," I sighed.

"The painting, it goes poorly?" she asked, her face concerned.

"No, actually, tonight it finally seemed to come together. I was painting…and then I saw…oh,
never mind. It doesn't matter." I was suddenly reluctant to mention the girl with the red
umbrella. I wanted to keep the mystery of her all to myself.

But there was no getting anything past Esme. "Ah," she murmured with a sly smile. "There
was a girl."

"Esme! I was painting the river!"

"But your eyes are filled with a woman," she said, cupping my cheek with her hand.

"You're imagining things, love," I smiled down at her.

"Well, in that case, I can tell you," she said with a shrug, "Victoire was here tonight, looking
for you."

I winced, relieved I'd missed that. One time. Just one time with the girl and I couldn't shake
her loose. Esme laughed at the face I made.

"I thought you'd feel that way, so I chased her off. It wasn't easy. Persistent, that one. And
Irina is here. She just came. Lovely girl…"

Hmmm, Irina? My thoughts skimmed over her long pale blonde hair, her blue eyes, her tall,
willowy frame…But lovely as she was, tonight, for reasons I couldn't explain even to myself,
she held no interest for me.
"Not tonight." I shook my head. Esme cocked an eyebrow at me in wonder. I couldn't blame
her, I was a little in wonder myself.

She chuckled and shook her head, then her gaze snapped up to mine, as if she'd just
remembered something, "Ah, Edward! There is this painter here. Mon dieu! Such genius!
Elton…no!…Ellsworth. You simply must come meet him." She grasped my wrist and started
to drag me back towards the dining room, but I resisted.

"Esme, not tonight! I'm frozen and soaked. I just want to go change and warm up."

"D'accord. Oui bien. Go, mon cher. We'll talk in the morning about your mystery woman."
She reached up and ran a hand through my hair before giving me a gentle push towards the
stairs.

"Esme, there's no mystery woman!" I protested, laughing and running a hand through my
own hair where she'd mussed it.

"Bien, bien,' she said, that wicked smirk curling her lips again. Then she turned towards the
parlor and her attention was drawn away by someone there. "Claudette! Bon soir! Ça va?"

I made my escape up the stairs before she remembered someone else I simply had to meet.
I climbed the two flights through the main body of the house, dodging guests sitting on
steps and chatting in the hallways in clusters. A few familiar faces smiled or waved and I
waved back, but didn't stop to chat. When I reached the third floor I made my way down the
hall to the back of the house, to the narrow curved wooden staircase that led to the attic, my
room.

No one was hanging around this far back in the house and the voices and the music
gradually grew faint. I climbed the stairs and pushed open the door to the garret. It was
dark inside so I groped my way to the little table along the wall with the lamp on it. The
light it provided was meager, but it was enough so that I could find my way around my
familiar space. On most nights the ambient light from the Paris skyline coming in through
the slanted skylight on the left helped illuminate the room, but it was too murky tonight.

I dropped my easel inside the door and propped the canvas carefully against the wall. My
small bed was against the wall on the left under the skylight, and the little raised area that
acted as the kitchen was along the right hand wall, flanked on either side by tiny dormer
windows that fronted the street. I stripped my clothes off as I crossed the room, dropping
my wet jacket across the kitchen chair, peeling my damp shirt off and throwing it on the
floor. I was left in just in my trousers and undershirt, still feeling frozen.

I found what I was looking for in one of the rickety kitchen cabinets, a bottle of scotch
Emmett gave me for Christmas, and poured myself a healthy glass. I threw myself into the
collapsing overstuffed armchair and propped one heel up on the table, staring out through
the skylight at the rooftops of Paris as I drank the scotch and felt the warmth creep through
me. I was tired and cold, and the garret was as chilly and drafty as it always was, so I figured
the scotch was necessary to ward off the cold. I was sure it had nothing to do with helping
me erase the image of a slim dark figure, her shoulders shaking with sobs.

I sat there until I drained the scotch, until I could feel my fingers again. I needed to move
over to the bed and at least try to get a decent night's sleep, but sleep meant dreams and
they were all too often unpleasant. No, I'd avoid that a while longer if I could, so I got up and
retrieved the bottle, settled back in my chair, and poured myself another drink.

Chapter 3

I think when I'm eighty-five, I'll still be able to close my eyes and see the gentle waves of the
Seine from the tip of the Square du Vert-Galant. Royce teases me and tells me it's provincial to
sit in the middle of the City of Lights and remember my backwater hometown, but there is a
certain familiarity about this park that calls to me. Despite the lights twinkling in the water
and the distant view of the Eiffel Tower, this place makes me feel closer to Forks, to you, dear
Bella. Whenever I need a little peace, I find myself in this tiny square, a little green oasis in the
center of an electric city.

}-----

When I awoke the next morning, it took a second to register my surroundings. I was on a
narrow bed, staring at a bright yellow wall. I sat up suddenly, slightly panicked. Then I
heard Alice's trilling soprano voice from the other room. She was singing along to some
French tune on the radio, accompanied by the familiar clang of pots and pans.

My eyes were still heavy from my crying jag in the park the previous night, but I felt lighter,
freer. Today I would find out what Alice knew about Rose's disappearance, and today I
would begin my search.

I stretched and wandered out into the apartment. The pajamas Alice had laid out for me the
night before were soft and comfortable. They were also bright pink.

"Good morning, sunshine!" Alice sang when I entered the kitchen. "Sorry I had to duck out
on you yesterday, but there were some things at the office I had to take care of. You were
sleeping, and you looked like you could use the rest."

"That's okay." I took the mug she offered me and inhaled the rich, somewhat bitter smell of
coffee. "I went for a walk when I woke up. I hope you don't mind, but I borrowed one of your
coats and your umbrella."

She waved a hand airily and turned back to the stove, where she was busy with a pan of
scrambled eggs. "I don't mind at all. If you're going to be wandering through Paris, you need
to look less like you just got off the boat. No one will take you seriously if you walk around
in the duds you came with. Speaking of which, I took the liberty of bringing you back some
new clothes. No need to thank me."

She transferred the eggs to two plates and turned back to the table, smiling cheerily. I
sighed and shook my head.

"Clothing is the least of my worries, Alice. I came to find Rose, and I need to get started as
soon as possible."

The smile dropped from her face and she nodded once. "Of course you do. I wish I could be
of more help, but things at work have been a bit gaga lately. I did some digging when she
first disappeared, but I didn't have any luck. That's why I contacted you." She took a big bite
of eggs and stood up quickly. "She left a note, you know."

I set down my coffee cup with a clang. "She did? Why didn't you mention it in your letter?
What did she say?"

"Whoa, there, honey. One question at a time." She got up and walked to the little table next
to the door. From the drawer she pulled a single sheet of paper. "It's short and to the point."

Wordlessly, I reached out for it. A few lines of Rose's familiar script ran across the top of the
page.

November 12, 1949

Dear Alice,

Our arrangement is not working out. I've found a different apartment and won't need
to stay with you any longer. Thank you for your hospitality. Enclosed you'll find the rest
of this month's rent and my key.

Best wishes,

Rosalie Hale

"This doesn't sound like her," I murmured, rereading the brief, cold note. Alice nodded
vigorously.

"I know, that's why I worried. I tried to get the police to help, but they said without any
evidence of foul play, there was nothing they could do. Officially, she's just a girl who
decided to get a new apartment and not tell anyone where she was going." She scowled.

"Didn't you speak to her at all? I'm sure it took her some time to move out."

Alice flushed a little and gave me a sheepish smile. "I was a little busy that week. Met a fella,
one thing led to another—"

Now it was my turn to blush. "Does that…" I stuttered. "Does that happen often?"

"I'm a hot-blooded American girl," she laughed. "It happens from time to time. And between
you, me, and the wall, I haven't met a fella yet who could say no… but that's beside the point.
Rose and I weren't best friends, but she was always sweet as pie. We weren't having any
problems, except she'd been a bit distant since she started seeing that man."

She said "man" like it was a dirty word.

"Do you mean Royce?"

"Yes, Royce." Her voice dripped with distain. "She never brought him around, never even let
me meet him. Almost as soon as she met him she started spending all her time with him. I
think she even stopped going to school after a few weeks. He's bad news."

"No, that can't be," I protested. "She described him in her letters as a perfect gentleman.
They were in love."

"Yes, well, I've met his kind of gentlemen before." She shot me a significant look. "And I
seriously doubt love was what he was after."

I sighed and ran my fingers through my hair, combing through the tangles left from my
restless sleep. I was sure that she was blowing Rose's relationship with Royce out of
proportion; Rose would never get involved with someone who would treat her like
anything less than a princess.

"Well, that note doesn't give us anything to go on. In her letters she mentioned he took her
to the Eiffel Tower and on a cruise of the Seine. I thought I'd check there to see if anyone
remembers seeing her recently."

Alice snorted. "Needle in a haystack, my dear."

"What do you suggest, then?" I snapped. "You wrote me, remember? This is what I have to
go on."

"I'm sorry." She looked down for a moment, then squared her shoulders and jumped to her
feet. "If you're going out into the city today, you really should look the part."

With that, she grabbed my hand and pulled me back toward her bedroom, the only room in
the apartment I hadn't seen yet. It was a riot of color; scarves were draped over every
available surface and clothing hung haphazardly from a stuffed armchair and a tall, tilted
mirror in the corner. She grabbed a scarf, a jacket, and a skirt and pushed them into my
arms.
"Now put those on and then I'll work on doing something with your hair."

"Um… don't I need a shirt to wear under the jacket?"

"That's what the scarf is for," she sighed, pulling at my hair. "It's too long, but I should be
able to add some curls and pin some of it up."

An hour later, she pronounced me good enough. I was uncomfortable wearing just my
underwear underneath the jacket, but Alice insisted that's how it was meant to be worn.
She fluffed the scarf around my neck and looked me over critically.

"Not exactly Parisian, but you won't stick out like a sore thumb," she pronounced.

It was enough to make a girl feel downright beautiful.

After making sure I knew how to get to the Eiffel Tower, Alice took off for an assignment.
We walked together for a while and she chattered about something called the "New Look." I
admit most of it went over my head, but I gathered that I was wearing pieces she had pulled
from a closet of samples they kept at French Vogue. I carried the trench coat I had
borrowed the night before just in case it started raining again.

Armed with my new clothes and a photograph of Rose and I taken last summer, I waved
goodbye to Alice and turned up the wide street running along the Seine. I figured I would
wander the shoreline and inquire about Rose at the riverboats that docked there. I could
follow the Seine directly to the tower, where I would start the second phase of my
questioning. Alice had given me a tiny book of French phrases, but advised me not to bother
with anyone who didn't speak English.

"Not on your first day, anyway," she laughed.

I found myself walking the same route I had the night before, this time crossing Pont Neuf
and bypassing the park completely. I had gone to the Square du Vert-Galant the night
before in a fit of despair, just wanting to be close to Rose in some way. I brought her last
letter, which was probably a mistake. Standing there in her private spot, the one she said
reminded her so much of home, and reading her words only made me feel that much
further from where I belonged. I had given in to my homesickness and let myself fall apart
for the second time that day. Luckily, the park was empty. No one was there to witness my
moment of weakness.

Rose had never told me what Royce looked like, so all I could really do was ask the dock
workers if they had seen Rose herself. While everyone I spoke was impressed by Rose's
beauty, none of them remembered seeing her in person.

"A face like that I would remember," one man remarked cheerfully.

"She would have been with a man," I pressed. "They were in love."
"Who isn't?" laughed the man. "Paris is a city full of lovers."

I stalked up and down the docks, waving Rose's picture under every English-speaking face I
could find. The place was crowded with tourists; vendors sold scarves, tiny models of
various city landmarks, and offered portraits for a few francs a piece. Not one of them
recognized Rose.

I took a break at midday, stopping at a small café for a baguette and a cup of coffee. The
dockworker was right, there were couples everywhere. They passed by my table two by
two, staring deeply into each other's eyes, or in the case of a few men, down their partner's
shirts. The table next to mine was occupied by a pair of teenagers who couldn't stop
giggling and leaning over their water glasses to sneak in kisses.

A strange, slightly wistful feeling came over me as I sat there. These people had come
through a war—a full scale occupation followed by a battle for liberation. Their dreams and
futures had been interrupted, if not taken away. Their clothing, gas, bread, and sugar were
rationed, even now, but they lived their lives with passion.

I had only lived through the war by proxy, watching news reels of troops landing at
Normandy and Okinawa. There were no bombs being dropped in Forks, Washington. A few
of the boys I knew had gone to war, but none of them had died in battle. My parents took
good care of me, and I even got to go to college, something many girls at my high school
were unable to do. I was going to be an English teacher, which was a noble, if not exciting
calling. When I graduated I would return to Forks to teach at the local high school, and in all
likelihood marry Jacob. Jacob, who was dependable, and kind, and had loved me since we
were 15 years old. We would be perfectly content together. He was predictable, but I always
thought of it as a positive characteristic; after all, I hated surprises.

My life was solid and my future practically guaranteed, but I was rapidly becoming jealous
of people who lived in a constant state of change and uncertainty. I snorted and dropped
the last of my money on the table to cover my bill. The sooner I found Rose, the sooner I
could return home. I had been in Paris for a day and it was already giving me funny ideas.

I walked to the tower as quickly as possible, determined that my afternoon would be more
productive than my morning. After staring at it from a distance throughout the day, I admit
I was anxious to see Eiffel's tower up close. It was taller than I expected, and every bit as
surrounded by humanity as the docks of the Seine had been. To my great annoyance, they
wouldn't let me up without a ticket, so I couldn't speak to the people who worked at the
restaurants on the first or second level, or the people who operated the lifts.

It didn't take long to realize that Alice was right; trying to find evidence of Rose in a place
like this would be impossible. Hundreds of people filtered in, out, and around the tower in
the few hours I was there. Even someone as beautiful as Rosalie Hale would be anonymous
here.
I wandered away from the crowds and back into the streets, letting myself get swept up in
the press of people heading home from work after a long day. Occasionally I consulted with
my map, just to be sure I wasn't hopelessly lost, but it was nice to simply follow my feet for
a while. I saw the National Assembly and the Hôtel des Invalides. The descriptions in Rose's
letters had not done this city justice, but I couldn't feel it in me to be impressed. All I felt
was anger.

Everything my mother had ever said about the blessings of small town life came crashing
down on me as I stomped my way past history.

Someone is always looking out for you, never forget that.

This wouldn't have happened in Forks, or even Seattle. My anger grew, and this time it was
directed at Alice. She had let herself get so wrapped up in a hot and heavy entanglement
with some fella that she didn't even notice when her roommate moved out! Who does that?

Rose didn't have anybody to look out for her. Her parents were killed in a car crash when
she was four. She was raised by her Aunt Helen, who lived next door to my folks. Helen died
last year. Heart attack. She was only 45. Rose used the money she inherited from her
parents to go to college, and she decided to spend her senior year in Paris, studying
romantic poetry. At the time, I had supported her whole-heartedly. Now, I couldn't believe I
had ever thought it was a good idea.

I made it back to Alice's by nightfall, but she still wasn't home. I was so frustrated by my
failed search and the way she had let Rose down that I knew I was liable to say something
foolish if I stuck around. It had started to drizzle again, so I decided to head out into the rain
for a long walk. Anything to clear my head. I grabbed my winter hat and Alice's bright red
umbrella and took to the streets.

For a long while, I just wandered down the main thoroughfares around Alice's
neighborhood, watching the people run in and out of buildings, huddled in wool coats and
stomping their feet for warmth. After spending my day out among the Parisians, there was
a subtle familiarly about them now. I still felt out of place, but not as alien as before.

As the night deepened, I found myself walking once more toward the Square du Vert-
Galant. A tiny voice in the back of my head whispered that maybe I would find her there. It
was her special spot, after all, the place she went for peace and quiet. I could understand
the appeal; it was an ideal spot to be alone.

The night was rainy and grey, although it wasn't as cold as it had been the previous evening.
By the time I got to the park, hardly anyone was out. Only a few couples sat hunched
together on benches near the entrance to the park, but other than that the square appeared
empty. As I passed through the gates to the narrow sidewalk which would take me to the tip
of the park overlooking the river, a flurry of movement caught my eye. Adjusting my
umbrella, I peeked under it discreetly.
I wasn't alone. Someone had set up an easel under the eaves of a vendor's stall; a man,
judging by the wild tufts of hair poking out above the canvas. He was bent over and I
couldn't see his face, but some sixth sense told me he was watching me. I swung my
umbrella back down self-consciously, hiding myself from view completely.

I kept up my casual pace, but the feeling of being watched followed me. The painter's eyes
seemed to burn into my umbrella. When I reached the tip of the square, I made a conscious
effort to stand very still, ignoring his presence to the best of my ability. He was an
annoyance, nothing more. A witness to ensure that I wouldn't break down tonight as I had
last night.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to force thoughts of failure from my head.
Rose had a point, there was something about this place that made me feel every bit as
isolated as I did on First Beach near Jacob's house. It was separate from the city, it was
something other. I let that feeling of isolation soothe me as I took big gulps of misty air. The
cold and wet didn't bother me; I had grown up under a near constant cover of rain. Odd as it
sounds, rain soothed me in a way bright sunshine never could.

Despite the comforting tattoo of the rain on my umbrella, I couldn't shrug off the electric
feeling of the painter's eyes on my back. It pierced through my calm and brought back all
the agitation I had felt on my walk from Alice's apartment. Shifting from foot to foot, I tilted
the umbrella back further and tipped my face toward the sky. My skin broke out in goose
bumps.

What was he staring at? Maybe I was imagining it. Yes, that was it. He had probably glanced
up at me as I entered the park and then turned back to his painting. Still, better to be sure.
At least once I confirmed that he wasn't looking I could go back to enjoying the rain in
peace.

I closed my eyes and turned slowly on the spot. When I opened them, I was staring at a wild-
eyed young man with a crop of tousled, rain darkened hair. He gaped openmouthed at me
for a moment, and then his lips tugged into a slow smirk. I shivered, and his smile widened.

He was dangerous, plain and simple: almost unbearably handsome, and his smile told me
he knew it. His eyes traced my figure in the dark, and I could feel my face flushing in
embarrassment. Then he winked, and I felt my irritation come surging back. I wasn't some
cheap hussy, won over by a wink and a nod. I wasn't going to bat my eyes and follow him
blithely to some Parisian bungalow so he could use me and toss me away.

I squared my shoulders and turned swiftly, striding forcefully from the park. The hairs on
my neck stood straight up as I passed him, but I resisted the urge to look back again. By the
time I got home I was sopping wet, my umbrella flopped forgotten at my side. I told myself
that the rain had helped to clear my head, but I knew it was a lie. My thoughts were just as
muddled as before, this time with images of a dark young man with smoky eyes. He wasn't
safe, he wasn't predictable, and he certainly wasn't Jacob.
Chapter 4

EPOV

A shaft of sunlight, grimy and hazy through the dirty glass of the skylight, stretched across
my bed and eventually woke me. I groaned and shifted a little so my face was back in the
shadows before I opened my eyes. Bloody hell, a little too much scotch last night. But at
least I slept soundly, so it was worth it. I scratched my chest and reached my arm out to the
bedside table, groping around until I found my cigarettes and lighter. Lighting one, I lay
back on the bed and watched the smoke curl up towards the skylight.

Something about the slightly serpentine shape of the smoke over my head made my mind
skip back to last night, to the slim graceful curve of her back as she stood at the railing….I
groaned and rubbed my eyes in frustration. I really needed to stop thinking about that
bloody girl in the park. I didn't even see her face, for Christ's sake. Certainly her presence
triggered the painter in me, inspired me and moved the work forward. But that was all. I
was just confusing artistic inspiration for…something else.

It was overcast today, but not raining, so I really needed to head out to the quai and try to
sell some paintings. The tourist foot traffic was always down in winter and the sales of my
kitchy little views of the Seine and the Notre Dame fell off sharply. Now that the weather
was finally turning, I needed to get out there and paint and earn some money. My life here
in Paris was cheap, but I still needed to make a little something to keep myself in canvases
and cigarettes.

Rolling out of bed, I snuffed out my cigarette in a discarded glass and headed off to the
water closet to splash some water on myself. I found a white shirt that was passably clean
and tugged my trousers back on, sliding my suspenders up. Thankfully my jacket was dried
out after last night, so I grabbed it off the kitchen chair and shrugged into it. I glanced in the
spotted, cracked little mirror over the sink and ran my hands through my hair. It was far
too long, but I had neither the money nor the inclination to get a haircut. I wet my hands
and raked them through it, flattening it a little. Better.

The paints and easel were all still packed up and sitting by the front door from last night, so
that was ready to go. After a few minutes of searching, I turned up a few small cheap blank
canvases that I threw in with the rest of my supplies. I situated my easel across my back and
picked up my bag of supplies. As I opened the garret door that led to the stairs, I spotted the
canvas from last night, still leaning against the wall. The figure of the girl was very rough,
only hinted at really. I'd have to spend some time working into it. Maybe I could find a few
minutes for it today…I glanced over my shoulder at the skylight. Overcast. Maybe it would
rain tonight, I thought hopefully. I snatched up the canvas and headed downstairs.
I took the back stairs down to the first floor, coming out in the large sunny kitchen and
bending to deposit my gear by the door.

"There you are. I missed you last night. Esme said you slunk off to your room as soon as you
got in!"

Carlisle was standing at the stove fussing with the coffee pot. He was still dressed for the
outside, wearing his light jacket and a tweed cap over his blonde hair. He must have already
gone out to the market this morning. I glanced at the clock on the wall. Eleven. Alright, it
was no wonder he was up. I was just too knackered to get out of bed at a reasonable hour.

"Good morning, Carlisle. Yes, I was soaked and frozen when I got in. Not up for socializing."

"But Irina was so disappointed," he said with a smirk, never looking up from the coffee.

"Yeah, Esme told me. But…no. No, thank you."

Now he turned to look at me, cocking one eyebrow at me questioningly. We had a close
friendship and he took a great deal of delight in teasing me, but at the end of the day, he was
still my uncle and talking to him about women was, frankly, a little odd. So I tried to sound
casual and dismissive.

I shrugged, "I don't know, Carlisle, I just didn't want her."

"Fine, fine. Suit yourself. Esme said you've got some new girl anyway."

I snorted in laugher. "Esme's barmy."

Carlisle chuckled, "Yes, well, we all know that."

"She said she saw her in my eyes."

"Is there a girl in your eyes, Edward?" Carlisle asked, only half joking.

"Bloody hell, Carlisle, she's made you barmy, too!"

He laughed and finally let it drop, thank heavens.

"Coffee?" he offered.

"Please, although you do make the worst coffee in all of Paris," I said with a smirk. The
teasing went both ways.

"Absolutement!" Esme's voice drawled from the door. She was wrapped in a brightly
colored floral silk robe, her hair loose around her shoulders, a cigarette gripped lightly in
her fingertips. She'd just rolled out of bed, but her red lipstick was already in place, "Really,
Carlisle, my love, twenty years in Paris and you still can't make decent coffee!"

"If you would just learn to drink tea, Esme," Carlisle sighed. "After all, I am British. The
English make tea."

I snorted and rolled my eyes. I couldn't make a decent cup of tea to save my life.

"Quelle horreur!" Esme gasped. "Tea! Can you imagine, Edward?"

"No," I said, shaking my head, "I can't."

"And you, my boy," Carlisle shook an accusing finger at me in jest, "Turning your back on
your fine English heritage!"

"Carlisle, I will take even your wretched coffee over a cup of tea any day." And to prove my
point I crossed the kitchen to pour myself a cup of Carlisle's truly vile coffee. Maybe I could
pop into a café once I got down to the river for a cup of something decent.

Esme pushed off the doorway and crossed the room to stand next to Carlisle, wrapping her
arms around his waist. He curled his arm around her shoulders and kissed the top of her
head as she nestled her head under his chin. I watched them out of the corner of my eye,
smiling at their affection.

"What are you up to today, Edward?" Carlisle asked.

"Painting by the river. I'll try to sell some pictures. If it rains tonight I'll head back over to
Vert Galant to do some work on my other canvas."

"Ah!" Esme cried, "The mystery woman!"

"Esme…there's no mystery woman," I lied, "Just a cold empty park and a river that I'm
trying to paint!"

"D'accord. Keep her to yourself then, if that makes you happy."

She left Carlisle's side and came to stand in front of me, placing her hand on my cheek. "As
long as something is making you happy, mon cher. You should be happy."

I looked down at Esme and felt an unexpected surge of emotion tightening my throat,
seeing the empathy in her face. I hated it when she felt sorry for me, it made me feel so
small and broken. Of course that was never Esme's intent, she just wanted to take care of
everyone, to make the whole world happy. It was simply that she had her work cut out for
her with me.

"I need to get going," I said, my voice gruffer than usual.

"Did you eat?"

I rolled my eyes at her attempts to mother me. As if Esme would ever cook.

"I'll grab something down by the river."

"No, no! Madame Chernot came by yesterday and brought me the most divine cheese! Take
some with you! And look, Carlisle brought some baguettes from the market. You're too thin,
Edward," Esme began to bustle around the kitchen, cutting a hunk off of the cheese her next
door neighbor brought and breaking off half a baguette. She thrust it all at me and all I
could do was stuff it in my bag and promise to eat it later.

"Edward." I was almost out the door when Carlisle's low voice stopped me. He slid an
envelope across the counter to me. "This came for you today. A letter from your mother."

I stared at the small white envelope for a long moment, "I'll read it later," I said, snatching it
off the counter and stuffing it in my back pocket. Carlisle shrugged.

"It's a bit chilly," he said. "You should take a hat."

I grinned broadly at him before diving across the kitchen counter and snagging his cap off
his head. "Alright then!" Pulling it down on my head backwards, I sprinted out the door,
hearing Carlisle and Esme laughing behind me.

Carlisle was right, it was cool this morning, and I was glad I had stolen his hat as I walked
along the Quai Voltaire towards the Eiffel Tower. I thought about heading all the way up to
the Tower itself, but I didn't really like painting there, so I settled on the Quai d'Orsay. I'd
have a good view of the Tuileries, and I hadn't painted that in a while. These little tourist
scenes I did were tedious, and I'd take a break in the monotony any way I could get it.

The Quai d'Orsay turned out to be a good idea. There were only a couple of other vendors
set up there today and a pretty decent trickle of tourists ambling by. I waved at Antoine,
another painter that I knew a little from these afternoons on the Quai, as I got my easel set
up and prepped a small canvas. I propped a handful of small Paris scenes I'd painted on
other days along the low wall behind me, all the usual stuff: the Notre Dame, the Pont Neuf,
the Eiffel Tower. I swear I could paint them in my sleep.

The afternoon got off to a brilliant start when a mother and daughter stopped to look at my
canvases. Americans, from the look of them. The mother was maybe forty, but well-dressed
and heavily made up. Her daughter was about twenty, with strawberry blonde hair, light
golden skin, and a yellow print dress just tight enough to show off the voluptuous curve of
her breasts and her tiny nipped-in waist. She trailed silently behind her mother, white-
gloved hands clasped lightly behind her, a chaste pose that only served to thrust her
breasts out farther. I was fairly sure that she was well aware of that.

The mother stopped to examine a painting, and then stopped again to examine me
surreptitiously out of the corner of her eye. As she turned back to the paintings, the
daughter paused to look, turning her head slightly to the side and throwing me a wicked
little smile. Alright then. I had to figure out how to play this one. Flirt with the mother or
flirt with the daughter? The mother was more likely to part with a few francs for a painting,
but the daughter…she was luscious.

I stood up from my canvas and came to stand near them.

"See anything you like?" I murmured.

They both turned to examine me, they both looked flushed and flustered by my words.

"You're not French," the daughter spoke first, surprised.

"No," I said, "I'm from England."

Her face fell slightly as she considered this. Clearly she was entertaining some fantasy
about an exotic French artist and was disappointed to find me not French. I smiled at her
warmly and her face relaxed. I guess she decided that English was close enough.

"I was looking for a painting of the Arc de Triomphe. Do you have one of those?" the mother
said, rounding on me. I was a little put out that she sounded like she was ordering out of a
catalogue, but I flipped through a stack of canvases I hadn't set up yet and produced one I'd
done of the Arc de Triomphe last fall. She took it from me, pretending to examine it closely,
although I doubted she knew anything at all about art.

"My, you are talented, aren't you?" she murmured, looking up at me though her heavy, dark
eyelashes. She was attractive for her age, there was no doubt about it. I began to calculate
how much I could reasonably ask for the painting.

"So I've been told," I replied with a grin. Her answering smile deepened and her eyes
traveled down the length of my body rather shamelessly. Her daughter, standing to the
side, huffed slightly and crossed her arms over her chest.

"I would like to have something to remember Paris by," she said pensively, making a show
of looking back at the canvas.

"Well, that one means a lot to me. You know, I wasn't planning on parting with it. But I
would hate to disappoint you. I do so love making beautiful women happy…" I trailed off.

Her dark eyes flashed up to me, "How can I convince you to give it to me?" she cooed.

I smirked at her and moved a half step closer as we began to negotiate the price, heavy with
innuendo. Eventually we settled on a sum that made her feel like she was getting a deal on
the masterwork of an unknown genius and made me feel like I'd made a small windfall on a
cookie cutter piece of trash I'd turned out in an hour. We concluded the transaction and I
fished a piece of brown paper out of my bag to wrap her canvas in. Her daughter trailed
behind, casting me questioning looks which I tried to ignore.

The mother happily accepted her painting and I happily accepted my francs. She expressed
how much she hoped she might see me here again before they left for the states and I
returned the sentiment before I settled back down to my canvas to paint.

I glanced up at the river again. They had stopped a few dozen yards ahead, the mother
looked out across the Seine, the daughter turned…and looked back at me. She smiled
broadly when she caught my eye and I smiled back and waved slightly. Then my gaze was
immediately pulled past her to a figure standing behind her, against the railing…a slender
girl in a black coat. My heart began to beat slightly faster instantly. Was it her? The dark
coat, the long swing of dark hair, looked the same. There was no red umbrella, but then
again, it wasn't raining. Her face was turned away from me, but it wouldn't have mattered
since I never saw her face.

I was such a twit. It was just a girl with dark hair in a black coat. There must be thousands
of them in Paris. But I already felt like I'd know the shape of her anywhere and that sure
looked like her. She turned away from me, walking slowly up the quai, her face turned
towards the river, as if she was examining the barges tied up below.

Before I was aware of what I was up to, I stood up and started in her direction. The quai was
more crowded now and people crossed between us, obscuring her from my sight. I caught
another glimpse of her before the crowd engulfed her again. When they parted this time,
there was no sign of her. I quickly scanned the railing for her dark shape, but she was
gone…again. I cursed softly under my breath. I was losing my mind, surely. What right
thinking person goes chasing down some girl he's only seen once, from the back? Barmy,
for sure.

"Are you looking for someone?"

I looked down, distracted. The daughter, standing in front of me, smiling up at me. I smiled
sheepishly. Of course, it must have looked to her like I was running after her. I smiled, I
waved, I shot to my feet like a bloody madman.

"Ah…just…enjoy your stay in Paris," I stammered stupidly. Her face fell in disappointment
as I turned on my heel and headed back to my easel.

I had just settled back down to paint when I heard a familiar drawling voice and slow
clapping.

"Applause, applause, Edward!"

I turned to see Emmett, leaning on the wall behind me, clapping his hands.

"Shut up, Emmett," I said with a grin.

"What? That was a goddamned brilliant performance! I bow before your genius! The
mother and the daughter! I swear, Eddie, that face of yours should be registered as a deadly
weapon, at least where the ladies are concerned."

Emmett pushed his huge frame off the wall and came to stand next to my easel. I reached
out and shook his hand in friendly greeting. I'd met the burly American a few months back
at the jazz club where I played and we'd struck up a friendship. Emmett was
straightforward and honest. A friendship with him was easy and uncomplicated. Plus, he
had great taste in music and he was always game to come along with me to see the great
jazz artists who came to Paris to play.

"Cut it out, Emmett. She had a genuine appreciation for my…talent."

"Well, she was certainly appreciating something," he laughed, then he glanced pointedly at
my crotch, "but I don't think it had much to do with your talent. At least not the painting
kind!"

"Alright, alright. You've had your fun at my expense. What brings you down here, mate?" I
asked.

"I was looking for you. I had a break in my day, thought I'd see if you wanted to get an early
dinner. Maybe Café de Flore?"

I rubbed the back of my neck thoughtfully. I'd barely touched the painting of the Tuileries,
so I should probably stay and work. On the other hand, I'd just made a tidy sum on that
painting of the Arc de Triomphe, so I was feeling flush. And the prospect of a decent meal
with Emmett at Café de Flore was appealing.

"Ah, bloody hell, I think I'm fated not to get any real work done today anyway. Why not?"

I stood up and started packing up my stuff. Emmett stood off to the side, watching me put
my things away.

"Something bothering you, Eddie?"

"Edward," I corrected reflexively, although I knew Emmett would persist in calling me

Eddie in spite of it. "No, why do you ask?"

"I don't know. You just seem a little tense, out of sorts. And when I saw you over there on
the quai you looked like you'd just seen a ghost."

"Just…I've just…" I trailed off and thought about what I should say. Should I tell Emmett
about her? Emmett had the least artistic, least poetic soul I'd ever encountered, so on the
one hand, no, he'd never understand this strange fixation that I'd developed for this
mystery girl. But on the other hand, Emmett had spent countless nights at Esme's,
surrounded by her motley crowd of artists, poets, musicians, writers and all-around freaks
and he'd somehow fit right in. This burly American businessman thoroughly embraced the
three ring circus Esme ran at her place, and Esme positively adored him. So maybe he'd
understand better than I expected. Maybe he really would get it.

"What?" he prompted, hoisting my easel on his shoulder as I hefted up my bag.

"It's just…" I sighed heavily, needing to unload to someone. "Let's go get some food and wine
and I'll tell you. Although I'm sure you'll think I'm mad."

Emmett laughed and clapped his huge hand down on my shoulder, making me wince
slightly.

"Eddie, I'm sure it's not that bad!"

*****

"So let me get this straight," Emmett said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the
table. "You still haven't seen this girl's face?"

We were settled at a sidewalk table at Café de Flore, the plats du jour in front of us, rapidly
making our way through a carafe of wine.

"Right."

"Just her back? All you know about her is that she wears a black coat and carries a red
umbrella?"

"And she has long brown hair," I corrected, "Really pretty long brown hair." I flinched
internally. I sounded like a complete wanker.

Emmett leaned back in his chair and laughed loudly.

"Holy smokes! You have it bad, kiddo."

I snorted in frustration and picked up the wine, refilling his glass and mine. I slugged back
half of mine in one go.

"Thank you, Emmett."

"All I'm saying is that maybe the next time you see her, if there is a next time, you should
maybe try and talk to her. Or at least get a look at her face!"

I scowled.

"For all you know she's cross-eyed with buck teeth!" He shrugged absently. "But hey, maybe
you like big teeth on a girl."

"Emmett!"

He sighed and tried to look serious.

"Look, I like you artistic types, but I don't always get you. So you're telling me that she's…I
don't know…some kind of inspiration, some kind of muse to you? Well, I don't know
anything about that, but I do know a little something about men and women. So I'm telling
you as a man who's got a thing for a woman, you just need to buck up and talk to her. See
what happens."

"And what if I talk to her and she's just…ordinary? Right now she's like the soul of my
painting. What if she turns out to be just some girl? Then what? My painting loses its soul."

Emmett chuckled and shook his head. "Guess you'll just have to take your chances. What if
she's not ordinary? What if she's extraordinary and all you ever did was stare at her back?"

I huffed and pushed my food around my plate some more.

"Here," he said, topping off my wine, "A little more liquid courage, and then out the door
with you!"

I sighed and raised my glass. Emmett was right. Just staring at her was driving me mad. If I
saw her again, I really needed to speak. Or at the very least, see her from the front.

*****

It rained that night. Not as hard as it did last night and it wasn't as cold, but at twilight a
misting rain started and kept up until well after dark. I hung out at a café until it was dark
enough then I headed to the Pont Neuf and the Île de la Cité. I was nervous, casting glances
to the right and left the whole time, but there was no sign of her yet.

Jules was happy to see me and tried to chat me up, but I was edgy and distracted. I couldn't
say more than a few words before looking around myself expectantly. Even Jules noticed.

"Waiting for someone tonight, eh, Edward?"

"What?"

"You are waiting for someone, non?"

"No. Just painting, Jules," I said, trying to turn my focus back to the canvas.

Jules took a long pensive drag on his cigarette and absently smoothed his long moustache
down with his free hand.
"You just seem nervous tonight," he said.

"No, not nervous. I'm fine." It was laughable, really. I could hear in my voice that I sounded
anything but fine. I sounded nervous.

"D'accord," Jules said, and turned back to his book, leaving me to fret in silence.

There were too many people here. When she came last night the park was empty. Maybe
she wouldn't come if there were people around. Then I mocked myself. Really? I'm getting
superstitious about seeing some girl in a park? I settled down to work and did whatever I
could to think about anything besides the girl. I worked on the reflections on the water in
the painting in an effort to avoid her figure.

Gradually the park emptied out. I hardly realized it until Jules called his goodbye as he
closed down for the night. A few scattered people sat on benches close to the entrance, but
down here at the point there was only me.

I was turning back to the canvas, paint loaded onto my brush, when a flash of red to my left
made my heart nearly stop. I glanced up just in time to catch the smallest glimpse of her
profile before she dropped her umbrella to her shoulder, effectively shielding her from my
sight.

She was here.

I didn't take my eyes from her as she walked past me towards the railing along the river.
Like last night, she simply stood at the river, looking out, but there was no crying tonight.
Her shoulders were set and unmoving, her head held high. Occasionally she would glance to
the side, but somehow with even less expectation of seeing someone there than she had last
night. But every time she turned her head I caught a tantalizing glimpse of her pale cheek
and I was desperate for her to turn around so I could see all of her, her eyes, her mouth.

I made a show of working on her figure in the painting, I might have made a few pointless
strokes of paint, but really I just stood there and stared, wondering how I had come to be so
wholly obsessed by someone I didn't know and hadn't even properly seen. She seemed in
no hurry to move on and I was in no hurry for her to leave. She just stood and watched the
river. I just stood and watched her. Her still figure, the soft lapping of the Seine against the
quai, lulled me into a sort of trance.

When she turned without warning, I fumbled and nearly dropped my brush. As I recovered
and glanced back up, there she was, looking straight at me. If I thought I was obsessed with
watching her back, then I was doomed now that I had seen her face. She was absolutely
lovely. High cheekbones and a delicate little chin, perfect lips and dark eyes that had me
positively pinned to my spot. I could hardly believe that she was finally looking at me. And I
was standing here staring at her like a bloody idiot. I closed my mouth, which I realized was
hanging open, and smiled slightly at her. Her eyes widened a bit and I smiled wider in
response. I was positively elated that we had made contact, even if it only amounted to eye
contact so far. She was still standing there like a little statue, so I winked as I grinned at her,
hoping to break the tension. I was just a second away from taking a step towards her when
she turned without a sound and sped towards the exit.

I took just a moment to think, wondering if I should chase her down or let her go. Chase her
down and say what? You don't know me but I've been staring at you obsessively for two
days and….Yes, that's bloody brilliant. She'll think I'm mad. Because I am. Well, let her think
that, I thought as I ditched my palette and sprinted after her. There was no sign of her just
outside the park or on the stairs to the Pont Neuf. I raced up the stairs and sighed in
disappointment when I reached the bridge. Pedestrians hurried back and forth in both
directions, but nowhere was there a hint of the girl with the red umbrella.

Chapter 5

I've never been a night owl, you know that, but Paris has changed me. The city comes alive
late at night. Royce has been taking me to jazz clubs, little hole in the wall bars where people
go and sit in the dark and find themselves in the music there. Royce likes to go because he
says he meets valuable contacts, whatever that means. My reasons aren't so easily explained.
I feel like I'm someone else in those clubs, or even like I'm no one at all. It's the most amazing
thing: the smoke and the dark and the tune swallow you whole, and all you're left with at the
end of the night is a certainty that you've brushed up against something marvelous… a
fleeting piece of genius.

}-----

"I hate to say it," Alice sighed, pouring two cups of coffee. "But I told you so. Everyone goes
to the Eiffel Tower, and most people take a trip up the Seine at some point. They aren't
unique to Rose, no one would remember her there."

I twirled a hunk of hair around my fingers, absently watching the curls spin out into loose
waves. Alice had gotten home some time during the night, and I woke up for the second
morning in a row to her cheery singing.

My sleep had been uneasy; a pair of dark eyes and a sly smile seemed to greet me from
every corner of my dreams. I was grumpy and exhausted when I woke, and all my feelings
of frustration came surging back when Alice's voice pulled me from my bed.

"Well you haven't been a fat lot of help," I muttered, swigging some coffee and grimacing.
"Do you have any sugar?"

"Sorry, doll, everything's rationed these days. We're lucky to have the coffee, seeing as
technically I only get rations for one."

"Technically?"

"It helps to have connections." She flashed me a wide smile and winked, which reminded
me of the painter from the park once again. I scowled.

"Your connections don't seem to be helping Rose any."

Her smile faltered, and she pressed her lips in a thin line.

"You got something to say?"

"Maybe I do," I shot back angrily. "The way I see it, this whole mess is your fault. If you had
been looking out for Rose the way you were supposed to—"

"Back up, sweetheart," Alice snarled. "Rose is a grown woman. We're pals and all, but I'm
not her keeper. I'm worried about her, and I want to find her as soon as we can, but this
isn't on me. I couldn't be happier that you came to help out, but if you're going to give up
and start laying blame after barely looking around for one day, well then you can catch the
next ship back to the States."

She stood in the middle of the tiny kitchenette with her hands on her hips, chest heaving,
daring me to speak. I opened my mouth, then closed it again. I took another sip of coffee
and stared down at the table. Alice sighed.

"Look, I'm sorry, okay? I do feel a little responsible, I should have been here when she left.
I've been looking for her since she disappeared. But she never told me anything personal,
never even told me about you, let alone her family. It was dumb luck she left a few papers
behind and I was able to get your address. I didn't know the first place to start."

"Rose doesn't have a family." I sniffled and my eyes teared up. "She's all alone. I'm all she's
got." I bit my lip to try to stop the tears, but a few of them dripped down my cheeks and
pooled on the tip of my chin. Alice slid into the chair next to me and dabbed at my face with
a dishcloth.

"There, there," she soothed. "Rose is lucky to have a friend like you. We'll find her, you'll
see."

I met her eyes for the first time since we started yelling. She looked determined and
confident, even while she wiped snot and tears from my face.

"How do you know?" I whispered. She patted my cheek lightly with her free hand.

"I'm Alice, aren't I?" She laughed and stood up, tossing the dishcloth into the sink. "Did you
bring any of her letters with you? I've always loved detective stories."
*****

Hours later, the kitchen table was littered with the letters that Rose had sent me between
August and October. It was frustrating to comb through each one over and over again,
looking for the smallest hint of someone we could talk to.

I hadn't noticed before how vague her letters really were. She almost never used names of
people or places.

"Here, she mentions that friend of Royce's again…James," Alice mused, running her pointer
finger across the letter she was examining. "No last name. Do you think she was a spy in a
past life? It's like she doesn't want to be found."

"Of course she does," I snapped, snatching the letter from her hands. "This is the third
reference to James, and it's always in a letter where she talks about jazz. He must be one of
the contacts Rose talks about early on. A business associate, maybe?"

"I can see it now," she answered in a harsh, dramatic whisper. "James, creature of the
underworld, lurks in a dark Parisian nightclub, waiting for the innocent damsel to fall into
his clutches." She cackled a spooky, sinister laugh and then looked up at me with a grin.

"Knock it off," I muttered, turning to the short list I'd been making. The clues we had turned
up were few and far between, but it was a start.

 Royce

 Eiffel Tower

 Seine River cruise

 Club St. Germain

 Les Trois Maillets

 Le Tabou

 James

"That was the last one." She started to pile the letters together in chronological order,
folding them and securing them with a rubber band. "I think we've got a good start here.
We'll hit the pavement tonight and ask around. I know where all three of those bars are, we
won't even have to walk very far."

"I don't know, is it safe? Walking around alone at night?"

She snorted and rolled her eyes. "I spend every night out in the city. Just stick with me, kid.
It'll be just fine." Then her eyes got bigger and she jumped to her feet.

"We'll have to get you a new look! The wide-eyed and innocent routine works okay for the
tourist spots, but you'll have to look like you belong tonight."

I fidgeted in my seat, suddenly uncomfortable with the way she was looking at me. There
was a speculative gleam in her eyes.

"You're good looking," she said, taking a step closer and pulling my hair from my hands.
"You've got beautiful skin and a nice figure, but your hairstyle is a little old-fashioned. We
can take care of that with a quick cut."

"What?" I gasped, yanking my head away. My hair was the one thing I truly loved about my
appearance. It hung in long, chestnut waves to the middle of my back. Most girls wore their
hair a little shorter, that was true, but I couldn't imagine walking around without the
comforting weight of my hair. Alice's hair was shorter than most, and terrifying images of
walking around looking like a shorn sheep flashed through my head.

"Just a little trim," she said coaxingly."Not more than a few inches. I can take you over to my
office and have a stylist look at you." When I shuddered, she laughed and let go of my hair.
"It's just a haircut, Bella. It doesn't hurt. Now go get dressed and we'll head out, we have a
lot of ground to cover today."

I stomped back toward my room, marshalling arguments against Alice's plans in my head.
When I reached into my suitcase, however, all I came up with was a few pairs of underwear.
Confused, I glanced around the room. The clothes I wore when I arrived had been draped
over the end of my bed. They were nowhere to be seen.

"Alice!" I called, my face flushing with anger. "Where are my clothes?"

She peeked into my room and wrinkled her nose. "Oh, honey, those weren't clothes. Those
were sacks masquerading as clothes. Trust me, I have plenty of things for you to choose
from." She paused, then shook her head. "Never mind, I'll choose."

Five minutes later, she came back with another full skirt and jacket. "This will do until we
get over to the office. I've had my eye on a dress that came in a couple of days ago, and I
think it'll be perfect for you."

I got dressed and she pulled me out the door, snatching a felt hat on her way.

"You're a blank slate, Bella, do you know how exciting that is? You can reinvent yourself
here in Paris." She hurried ahead of me down the stairwell. "I was in your shoes once.
Fresh-faced and new, not knowing anyone. Now look at me!" She struck a pose against the
railing, batting her eyes and swirling her skirts.
I snorted and continued past her to the first floor. "I'm only here to find Rose. When I find
her, I'm taking her home to Washington, end of story. No blank slates, no reinventing. I have
a very comfortable, normal life to get back to, thank you very much."

She sighed and flounced down the stairs. "Fine, live in denial. You'll see."

"You say that a lot."

"Well, you will. I know things."

"Right, well next time you gaze into your crystal ball, be sure to ask it where Rose went."

"Are you sure you don't want to know when you're going to meet a tall, dark, and handsome
stranger?"

My breath caught as the painter's face flashed in my mind, and I stumbled slightly. She
noticed, of course.

"Or maybe you already have? Bella Swan, you sly dog! Have you been holding out on me?
Only in Paris for two days and you've already snagged a man!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Alice, where would I have met anyone?" It wasn't really an answer to
her question, but it was technically true. We hadn't met; we only stared, connected for a few
brief moments in the dark.

She sighed and shook her head. "You're no fun at all, you know that?"

"Did you post that letter for me?" I asked, swiftly changing the subject. When I arrived, I had
handed Alice the letter I wrote to my parents, explaining that I was safe and with friends. I
may have embellished a little bit, painting the living situation with broad creative strokes. I
couldn't imagine my father being pleased that instead of a dormitory with chaperones and
curfews, I was staying in an apartment with a practical stranger and venturing out into the
city alone at all hours of the day and night.

"Of course, sent it off first thing yesterday morning," she answered. "A bit soon to be writing
the folks, don't you think? Nothing's happened yet."

"They didn't exactly know I was leaving," I muttered, blushing a little. She beamed at me.

"Get out of town! You ran away to Paris without telling anyone? You've got more guts than I
thought."

"I've got plenty of guts," I said, a little stung, though goodness knows why. Alice didn't know
me, so her opinion really shouldn't have mattered. For some reason, though, I found myself
caring what she thought. "My parents would have said no, and your letter really worried
me, so I just got together some money and took a train from Seattle to New York, and then a
ship from there. I don't know how I'm going to get home, I spent every last cent I had getting
here."

I hadn't given a thought to the return trip, but I really had no idea how I was going to swing
it. Hopefully Rose would have enough money left over to loan me the fares, and I could pay
her back once we were home.

"That is one long boat ride," Alice whistled. "I was seasick for a week when I came over.
Good thing I never plan on leaving Paris, or I'd be dreading the trip home."

We were hurrying through the streets now, Alice skipping ahead while I blindly followed. I
had no idea where we were. We had left the major roadways behind us, turning down
narrow streets and up alleys. I hoped she was taking a shortcut, not just getting us
hopelessly lost in the middle of the city.

"You're never going home? Don't you miss your family?"

"Why would I leave this behind? Paris is where it's happening. I'm only writing about
fashion now, but I have big plans. I meet everyone in the business through Vogue, and some
day I'm going to start my own fashion house. New York may have clothes, but Paris has
couture. Besides, my parents love to vacation in Europe. I see them often enough when they
swing through the continent."

Her life sounded exotic, but I couldn't fathom living it. Just the thought of Charlie and Renee
Swan "touring the continent" was enough to make me chuckle. Besides, my mother had a
hard time when I was only a few hours away in Seattle. She would throw a fit if I tried to
move to another country.

"Here we are," Alice sang, stopping in front of a nondescript building. She pulled open a
door and gestured for me to enter ahead of her.

"I can't wait to introduce you to Paul." She grabbed my hand and tugged me past a reception
desk. The secretary who sat behind it gave me an incredulous glance and then glared at
Alice, who was too busy walking in the other direction to notice.

"Alice, are you sure it's okay that I'm here?" I whispered, staring over my shoulder at the
well-manicured secretary, who was still giving us the stink eye.

"Of course it's okay," she exclaimed. "Why wouldn't it be?" She turned the corner, and
before I could answer, she was leading me through another door. There was a row of
mirrors set up along an entire wall of the room, all brightly lit with small yellow bulbs. The
smell of powder and perfume hung lightly in the air, and people bustled to and fro shouting
and passing bits of paper. I shrank into the doorway, but Alice pushed forward, not noticing
I had stopped.
"Yoohoo! Paul!" she called. A tall blond man whipped around and grinned down at her.

"Alice, ma chére! I thought you were off today." He kissed both her cheeks and pulled her
into a hug. He was so much taller than her that the top of her head didn't even reach his
shoulder.

"I have a special project for you." She glanced around, searching through the crowd.
Spotting me, she shook her head and waved me over. "Get over here, Bella. Don't be shy!"

"And who is this?" Paul extended a hand to my own and lowered his lips, brushing them
over the back of my hand and glancing up at me through his eyelashes. "Enchanté,
mademoiselle." I gulped, but Alice just laughed and elbowed him.

"Lay off the flirting, bub, you've got work to do. This is my friend Bella. She needs a haircut,
but just a trim, you hear? I'm thinking just below her shoulders." She gathered my hair in
her hands and twisted it, showing him what she meant. "Set it and comb it out in nice
waves, something that'll keep for awhile. When you're done, I'm taking her over to the
makeup counter." She turned back to me and gave me a hug. "I have to run to wardrobe for
a minute, but you're in good hands with Paul. Just ignore the flirting and talk to him about
boys, I bet you two have similar tastes."

He rolled his eyes and grabbed her shoulders, steering her back toward the door while I
stared after them in shock. "Ah, you are the comedian today. Go, go, your Bella will be safe
with me!" He pushed her out the door and turned to face me.

"Now that the fairy godmother is gone, we can get to work, yes?" I gave a tentative nod and
he clapped his hands with a delighted smile. "Follow me, and try not to look so frightened,
ma petite belle. I won't bite. Hard." He led me to the end of the row of mirrors, where
several large sinks were set up.

"First I'm going to wash your hair, then cut it and set it in rollers. We've got some chairs in
the next room for you to dry off in, and then we'll set your curls and pin you up. You won't
have to do anything, so just relax and enjoy." He wrapped a big piece of cloth around my
neck, draping it over me like a blanket, and pushed me gently into a chair in front of the
nearest sink.

Paul chattered while he worked, scrubbing my hair with something that smelled vaguely
fruity and sweet. His strong fingers worked circles in my scalp, and I felt the stress start to
sap from my body. I fell into a light doze, waking up suddenly when he addressed a
question to me.

"How do you know Alice, ma belle?" He rinsed the suds from my hair and reached for a
towel.

"She's a friend of a friend," I replied, sitting up and leaning back into the fluffy white towel.
"I'm staying with her while I'm in Paris."
"Alice is a good friend to have," he said, squeezing the excess water out and fluffing my hair
a little. He directed me to a nearby mirror and grabbed a comb, working through the
tangles gently. If I closed my eyes, I could almost pretend like I was back in Forks sitting in
my kitchen, letting my mother brush my hair. Almost. The constant chatter around me,
however, both in English and French, shattered that illusion.

"She knows everyone in the city," Paul continued, pulling out a pair of scissors and making
some experimental snips at my ends. I held my breath as the little pieces of hair dropped
limply to the floor. "And she's a loyal little thing. There's no one better." Snip, snip. A bigger
piece of hair, this time about two inches long, fell from his fingers.

"Of course, she can be a bit pushy," he mused, his scissors working faster now. Snip, snip,
snip. "But then, you already know that first hand, don't you?" He laughed, amused by his
own joke. It was all I could do to offer a weak smile. My eyes were fully focused on the dark
brown strands that he was tossing carelessly to the ground. Snip, snip. Snip, snip.

He seemed to catch on to my panic and set down his scissors abruptly. "Are you alright?"

I took a deep breath through my nose and nodded slightly, then shook my head. "I haven't
gotten a haircut in a long time."

Smiling fondly, he patted my cheek and picked up his scissors again. "Ah, is that all? I know
it's hard, but you'll see. Once we get you set in curls and styled, you'll love it. I promise not
to cut it all off."

With that comforting little proviso, he spun me around to face away from the mirror and
continued to cut. It seemed to take forever, but I distracted myself by watching the
organized chaos that was unfolding around me. I couldn't understand half of what was
being said, so I simply made my own interpretations.

The man near the door was gesturing wildly with a stack of glossy photos while he yelled at
a woman in a purple dress. She yelled back, sticking her face right up next to his and
spitting out a string of what I was sure were obscenities. I imagined he was an important
photographer, and she, his beautiful but impudent assistant. She was the only one who
would stand up to him, and he loved her for it. When she finished, he stared at her blankly
for a moment, then grinned and passed her the sheaf of papers. With a cursory nod, she
turned and flounced out of the room. Mission accomplished.

Two women sat in a corner, smoking and playing cards. They spoke softly, occasionally
glancing at a tall man in a blue suit and fedora who leaned against the far wall. He seemed
aloof, almost as if he didn't belong there. Was he waiting for someone? Perhaps the women
at the card table were waiting for him to approach. If so, it looked like they would be
disappointed. He never moved, never even looked at them.

I lost myself in daydreams while Paul rolled my hair into curlers. I loved to watch people, to
imagine their lives and their stories. At one time I had thought I would be an author, but as I
grew up, more practical dreams took the place of that one. Still, I kept little notebooks full
of doodles and observations, half formed thoughts and flights of whimsy.

"All done!" Paul sang, startling me from my reverie. "Let's get you to a dryer, ma belle."

It took another hour or so to get my hair dried, set, and styled, and Paul refused to let me
look in the mirror at any point during the process. He was a cheerful companion, and after
a while I gave in a started to chat with him about the city and his life. He answered some of
the questions I had about the jazz scene, and I told him about my life in America. He seemed
surprised when I told him I didn't have a beau.

"A girl as lovely as you? Impossible!" he exclaimed, hairpins sticking out of his mouth
comically.

"Well, there's a boy back home, but lately I only see him on school breaks," I admitted,
thinking once more of Jacob. I was sure he'd been furious once he found out what I'd done.
If I had told him my plans, he would have insisted on accompanying me. It was one of my
main motivations for staying silent; I had to do this alone.

"Do you love this boy?" Paul asked, giving me a curious glance. I frowned. Love seemed like
such a vague and indefinable concept. I certainly cared for Jacob a great deal, but did I love
him?

"I don't know," I finally said, coughing through a cloud of hairspray that Paul was now
aiming at my head. "He's a close friend, and we've known each other for years. He's told me
he wants to marry me one day."

"There's no passion in your eyes," Paul said, shaking his head. "Love thrives on friendship
yes, but also excitement and desire." He spun me around to face the mirror. "Love is beauty,
ma petite belle. And so are you."

I stared open-mouthed at the girl in the mirror. It was just a haircut. Logically, it shouldn't
have made much of a difference, but I couldn't get over the fact that the girl in the mirror
was not the Bella I was used to. She was elegant and stylish, and her hair fell in sleek waves
to her shoulders, ending with a gentle curl. A soft fringe of hair curled around my forehead,
making my eyes pop. I blinked.

"Wow."

"I'll say!" Alice appeared in the mirror behind my head. "It's perfect. Thanks, Paul, you're a
doll. Okay, Bella, you ready for your next stop? You're almost done, and then we can grab a
quick bite to eat before our first club of the night."

"I've been sitting in this chair for hours," I whined. "Can't I just put on whatever dress you
got me and call it a day?"
"And let you walk out of here half done up? Paul would never forgive me, would you, Paul?"
She rounded on him with wide eyes, eyelashes batting shamelessly.

"Absolument! I'm afraid you must suffer through." Sighing, he offered me his hand and
pulled me to his feet. He kissed both my cheeks and wrapped his arms around Alice and me.
"Now, don't stay away for too long. Au revoir."

The makeup counter was far more terrifying than Paul's mirrored studio had been. Rows of
false eyelashes lined one end, while creams and powders of every shade covered most of
the rest of the counter.

"Don't look at me like that," Alice chided, picking up a round tin of an unidentifiable cream.
"You don't need much, just some color and a little dark around your eyes." She caught me
staring at the eyelashes and laughed. "You won't need those. They're for photo shoots, but
they're a lot of trouble to go through every day."

She worked quickly, and true to her word, she left most of the makeup untouched on the
counter. The worst part was when she lined my eyes with a heavy, wet paint. I kept blinking
and tearing up, until I swear she was ready to throw something at me.

"Just look up and keep still," she hissed, holding my eyelid up with the tip of her finger. "I'm
almost done, and if you blink again you'll smudge it and I'll have to start all over."

It was worth the whole, tortuous afternoon, however, when Alice pulled out the dress she
picked out for me. I don't normally care much about clothing, but this dress was… it was
perfect. Shades of white and blue washed through it like waves on the ocean. The straps
gathered at my shoulders and left my neck and collarbone exposed. It pulled in to hug my
waist and then flared in a full skirt. When I looked in the mirror and saw myself in that
dress, I felt truly beautiful. I barely noticed the dainty black high heels she made me wear,
or the new, blue gray trench coat she dropped on my shoulders.

"You're perfect," she breathed, staring at my reflection. "Dare I say it, but you look
positively French."

I gave her a wry smile and turned away from the mirror, noting that she had changed while
I was with Paul. She was wearing a silky, black number with crisp shoulders and sleeves
that went about halfway down her arms. Her skirt wasn't quite as full as mine, but her
neckline was far more daring, dipping down low to reveal the tops of her breasts. A jaunty
cap with a feather sticking up was perched on her head.

Alice took me to a place called Café de Flore for dinner. It was near her apartment and
apparently frequented by artists and philosophers. The patrons there looked like
everybody else in Paris, but she insisted that the man sitting in the corner smoking was
someone important.
"I can just tell," she whispered loudly when I asked her how she knew. "He looks like he's
thinking deep thoughts. He's obviously an author, maybe a member of the resistance!" She
sighed. "It's all terribly romantic."

I laughed at her and went back to my meal. There was something faintly ridiculous about
the way she swooned over the man. He was middle-aged and craggy, with thick glasses that
covered half his face. There was absolutely nothing remarkable about his black beret or
leather jacket, or the writing tablet in front of him. She was right about one thing though—
his brows were furrowed in concentration as he swigged his coffee and scribbled
frantically, sometimes pausing for a long moment to simply stare at the passers-by. He was
clearly thinking "deep thoughts."

Meanwhile, with each bite of my dinner I felt my nerves returning. Alice didn't think
waltzing into a bar alone would be a problem, but I had my doubts. Paul made the whole
scene sound edgy and dangerous; dark places for dark deeds. At the time I had thought he
was kidding, but now that Alice was paying our bill and checking her makeup, our whole
silly plan seemed terribly real. We had wasted quite a bit of time at the café, and it was
clear she was anxious to get going.

"I think we'll start at Les Trois Maillets," she mused, standing up and hooking her arm
through my own. "It's the tamest of the three, less likely to be crowded this early in the
evening. We'll ask at the bar about James and Royce, and if we don't get anything we can
head over to Le Tabou."

"Early? It must be nearly ten."

"The jazz scene doesn't get really hopping until eleven or midnight," she explained. "And Le
Tabou is open the latest, usually until four in the morning."

I gaped at her. "Four in the morning? We won't be out that late, will we?"

She waved a hand airily. "We'll just let the night take us where it will. When it's time to go,
we'll go. No need to over think it."

"And you're sure it's safe," I said worriedly. "We won't get robbed or kidnapped or—"

"Jeez Louise," she sighed. "Give me a little credit. I wouldn't take you anywhere dangerous.
Just relax and enjoy the adventure!"

I followed half a step behind her, trying to approach the problem practically. Alice was
clearly unconcerned about our safety, so that would have to fall to me. My father had taught
me a little bit about how to handle myself around men, but most of his advice consisted of
where to put my knee if someone got "fresh." I wasn't sure how much help that would be,
but it was a start.

When we walked down the steps into the basement club, I was immediately assaulted with
the smell of cigarettes and alcohol. The lighting was dim, and a small stage was set up on
the far side of the room. Someone was playing a piano, and a woman danced alone on the
stage. Most of the tables were filled with people who were drinking and talking in low
voices. A few men loitered by the bar.

Alice hopped up onto a barstool and waved to the bartender. He sauntered over, casting
appraising looks at the two of us. I stationed myself behind her, ready to defend against
anyone who got too close.

"A glass of red, please," Alice purred, batting her eyelashes. I would have rolled my eyes,
but her flirting seemed to actually work. He grinned and poured her wine, swirling the
glass before setting it down in front of her. He turned to me.

"And for you?" he asked in heavily accented English. I blinked, at a loss. I had never stepped
foot in a bar before, and my experience with alcohol was limited to a champagne toast at
my cousin Emily's wedding.

"She'll have the same," Alice said smoothly. She glanced over her shoulder at me and gave
me a reassuring smile.

Turning back to the bartender, she flashed her teeth and leaned over the bar.

"I don't suppose you're familiar with a man named James? Spends time with another man
named Royce?"

The bartender frowned and pushed a glass of wine toward me.

"We get quite a few people here each night," he mused. "One man would be hard to
remember."

"Can't you try?" she wheedled, leaning forward again. Her chest was spilling out of the top
of her bodice, and the bartender was staring. "For me?"

"Alice," I hissed. "You're not decent!"

She shook her head minutely and kept leaning. The bartender ogled, his eyes bouncing
from Alice's face to her barely concealed breasts to me. I didn't like the way he looked at
me, as if he was expecting me to follow suit at any moment.

"I know a lot of men by that name," he finally said, setting down the bottle he was holding.
"But I may know the one you're interested in."

Alice grinned and straightened up just as a tall man with red hair stumbled into her stool.
Everything happened very quickly after that. He reached out to steady himself; one hand
landed on the bar, and the other grabbed my bottom. I reacted on instinct, twirling toward
him and lifting my knee swiftly into his crotch. He was already half bent over, but when my
knee came in contact with him he fell to the floor with a crash, hitting his head on the bar
on the way down. Alice shrieked and jumped up from her stool, and the barman looked on
in shock.

The red headed man groaned and twitched on the floor. He lifted his face briefly and I could
see blood streaming from his nose and dripping onto his chin.

"What is going on here?" A huge, hulking man with a German accent came barging up to us.
"Are you fighting in my bar?" He looked incredulously from the man on the floor to Alice
and me.

"I…he…" I couldn't believe I had just done that, and I certainly couldn't form a coherent
thought.

The large German's moustache rippled and he ground his teeth together. "I think you
should go," he said slowly.

Alice turned back to the bartender, one eyebrow raised. He chucked a little and shook his
head. "Look at Le Tabou. He spends many nights there."

She nodded and grabbed my arm, pulling me past the man on the floor, who was sitting up
now, still looking a bit dazed.

We burst into the night air, Alice still tugging me along behind her. Suddenly she started
making a choking sound, and then she was laughing hysterically. She stopped in the middle
of the sidewalk and tried to slow her breathing, but she was laughing too hard. I couldn't
see what was so funny, the entire situation was horrifying. Then I remembered something.

"Alice! We didn't pay for our drinks!"

My comment only spurred on more giggles from Alice. She waved her hands in front of her.

"Stop, stop!" she pleaded, blinking rapidly. "My makeup will run if I keep laughing like this."

After another minute, she finally got control of herself and took a couple of deep, noisy
breaths.

"You are too much," she wheezed, clutching her ribs. "I've never been kicked out of a bar
before. Where did you learn that? He was at least ten inches taller than you."

"My father is a police chief, and he told me what to do if I was ever cornered by a man." I
frowned. "He also told me never to go out at night without an escort."

She looked me over, bemused. "Well, you're clearly tougher than any of us thought."

"Is that a compliment?"

"Of course!" She grinned and started walking again. "I hope I actually get to drink my wine
at Le Tabou. I need it after that."

The entrance for Le Tabou was just like the one for Les Trois Maillets. Stone steps led down
to a cellar bar, and the same cloud of smoke hung over the patrons. A small band played in
the corner. The smoke obscured their faces, but their music was more upbeat than the
piano at the last bar. This piano player was standing, bent over the keys and practically
using his whole body to play while a drummer clanged out a beat behind him. There was
sudden break and the trumpet player stepped forward, blowing a solo. The music seemed
to live, surging through the club and wrapping around me like a cloak. I was mesmerized.

"Bella? Bella, snap out of it." Alice's voice broke through my daze and I turned to face her.
She was holding two glasses of wine and grinning at me. "I lost you for a second. I'm glad to
see you haven't knocked out any men while I was at the bar. I got a lead for us to check out.
There's an American near the stage who supposedly knows this James. At least the
bartender knew exactly what I was talking about right away this time. We're getting
closer."

She turned and started weaving through the small tables, making her way toward the front
corner.

"Are you sure we should just walk right up to him? Maybe we should get someone to
introduce us," I said nervously, following close behind.

"Don't be silly, how scary could he be?" She laughed, then added, "Besides, I've got you to
protect me."

We had reached the stage and the table that Alice was aiming for. A man with messy blond
hair sat facing the stage, drink in hand.

"Excuse me," Alice said. The man didn't move.

"Excuse me," she said again, a little louder. He turned his head to look at us, and raised a
single eyebrow. I gasped. The right side of his face was marked with scars, some of them
whitened and barely visible, others slightly pink. They seemed to stretch down to where his
collar covered his neck. He glowered at us for a moment while we just stared back.

"Excuse me," Alice breathed, walking forward a few steps and sitting next to him. He glared
at her again, but there was something new in the way he looked at her. I didn't miss the way
his eyes scanned her body.

"Alice, maybe we shouldn't bother the man just now," I whispered loudly, hoping she could
hear me over the sound of the band.

"Nonsense," she said brightly, still locked in a stare down with the man. "I'm Alice, and this
is my friend Bella. What's your name?"

He glanced up at me, then back at Alice, who waited expectantly. Sighing, he nudged out the
chair on his other side with one hand.

"Sit," he said in a gravelly voice. I didn't move, and he glared again. "Sit down," he ordered
again.

I sunk into the chair and took a gulp of my wine for good measure. I needed to do
something, so I chose to drink. I coughed a little as wine slipped down my throat. It burned
slightly.

"I'm Jasper Whitlock," the man said, turning back to Alice. "But you probably already knew
that."

"I've been looking for you," she answered, smiling a little. I took another drink and winced
as she batted her eyelashes yet again. He gave her a half grin and licked his lips.

"Is that right?"

The way they were looking at each other was making me uncomfortable, so I did the only
thing I could think of. I opened my mouth.

"Well, we were looking for you, Mr. Whitlock," I said briskly. He turned to me, surprised,
and before he could speak I kept going. "We're looking for a friend of ours, and we know
her beau spends time here with a man named James. The bartender was under the
impression that you were acquainted with him."

Jasper swiveled in his seat and leaned toward me.

"And why should I help you?"

"Well, I… that is…"

I was interrupted by a hand on my shoulder. I turned and looked up into the face of the last
person I expected to see in this bar. It was the painter from the park.

"Excusez-moi. Êtes-vous bien? Cet homme vous tracasse-t-il?" The rapid French flew from
his lips, but all I could do was stare. He looked every bit as rumpled as he had in the park,
except he was a little better dressed. From a distance I had thought he was handsome; now
that I was inches from his face I knew he was so much more than that. His square jaw and
bright eyes would be burned in my memory forever, no question about it. He was looking at
me with concern, but also with an edge of possessiveness that made my stomach clench and
my heart pound. I felt a flash of unexpected disappointment when he spoke French. If we
couldn't understand each other… I almost laughed out loud. There was no reason to worry
about whether or not I would be able to speak with the painter. He was just a strange man,
interrupting our conversation and grabbing me without invitation.

When I didn't answer, he glared at Jasper.

I cleared my throat, and his eyes snapped back to mine.

"I'm sorry, I don't speak French."

He smiled widely and nodded. "Of course," he said. He had a clipped English accent now that
I could understand him. Irrational relief flooded through me. "I just wanted to make sure
this man wasn't bothering you. Are you alright?"

"We're fine," Alice said, looking from the painter to me with mystified eyes. "Thanks."

I turned back to Jasper, but the painter's hand remained firmly on my shoulder. I tried to
shrug him off, but he didn't let go. After a moment, I turned back to him.

"Can I help you?" I huffed. He cocked his head to the side and finally dropped his hand from
my shoulder, bringing his arms up to his chest and crossing them.

"You cut your hair," he said with a frown. "I don't like it."

Chapter 6

She was here, in front of me. Finally. My mystery girl. I'd seen her up close, I'd spoken to
her, I'd touched her.

The whole thing was surreal. I'd looked up from the piano to spot her like she was some
apparition come to haunt me. The black coat was gone replaced by a bloody lovely blue and
white dress, and her hair was different, shorter. As beautiful as she looked, and she did look
beautiful, I felt slightly annoyed. She existed in my head the way I'd seen her up until now:
dark coat, long swing of dark hair, red umbrella. Now she was colorful, stylish, and most
importantly, here. In the flesh, in my bar, not two tables away from the stage, and…talking
to some really frightening-looking blond prat.

At that point some unfamiliar protective…possessive…instinct took over and before I knew
what I was doing I was off the stage mid-song and stalking towards her, leaving Felix and
Laurent staring after me from the stage, mystified. I'd reached her side and clamped my
hand down on her shoulder, still not fully aware of my actions. I just wanted to make sure
she was okay, and that the tough-looking scarred man wasn't hassling her, which is what I
said, first in French, then in English when she surprised the hell out of me by being
American.
Then I realized that she was still staring at me…no scowling at me.

"Excuse me?" she said, her voice testy. I'd have never guessed she was American. Her
clothes threw me: they looked French.

"Pardon?"

"What do you mean, you don't like my hair?"

Oh, hell, I hadn't said that out loud, had I? Mystery Girl was fuming. Apparently I had. Well,
I'd bungled this from the outset.

"Do you two know each other?" her little dark-haired friend asked, arching one eyebrow
and grinning expectantly. The scarred, scruffy blond man they'd been talking to was eyeing
us with amusement.

Mystery Girl and I answered at the same moment.

"No," she said firmly.

"Sort of," I said.

"Well, which is it?" the little one snapped.

Mystery Girl cleared her throat and looked away, obviously embarrassed, "I sort of…saw
him in the park."

"I knew it!" her little friend shouted, clapping her hands together in delight. "So you're the
stranger!"

"Alice!' Mystery Girl hissed at her companion. So she was talking about me to her friends?
That made me feel marginally more confident. I put on my most winning smile.

"I'm afraid we were never formally introduced. I'm Edward Cullen," I said, holding my hand
out to her.

She eyed me carefully for a long moment, clearly at war with herself. Finally the well-
mannered girl won out and she slowly extended her hand to me, "Bella Swan."

I wrapped my hand around hers. Tiny hand, delicate little fingers. And so warm. Bella. Yes,
she was.

She pulled her hand away, looking up at me, her face slightly puzzled.

"This is my friend, Alice Brandon. And this is Mr. Jasper Whitlock."

Alice sprang out of her chair and seized my hand in hers.

"It's awfully nice to meet you, Edward! Bella's been holding out on me!" Her grip was
crushing for such a tiny thing, "Why don't you pull up a chair and join us?" I reached out and
snagged a chair from the neighboring table and sat down next to Bella. She and Alice had a
quick, silent conversation that seemed to consist of frowns and raised eyebrows and
leering grins.

"Do you all mind moving the sock hop someplace else so I can finish my drink?" Jasper
asked, irritated. Then he fixed me with a challenging glare, "And aren't you supposed to be
playing? I came to hear some jazz."

I scowled back at him.

Bella turned in her chair to face Jasper. "But Mr. Whitlock, we need your help."

She was going to keep talking to this wanker? Jasper was looking annoyed and exasperated,
but Bella leaned forward intently. There was no way I was leaving her alone with him. I
scooted closer, until my knee was almost touching hers and draped my arm across the back
of her chair. She didn't seem to notice, all of her attention focused on Jasper.

"And I repeat what I said before," Jasper drawled, "why should I help you?"

Alice leaned across the table, the front of her dress dipping perilously low, and laid her
hand on Jasper's forearm. He swung his full attention to her, devouring her with his eyes. I
hoped for her sake that Alice knew what she was doing. From the look on her face, she did.

"This James fella knows our friend. We just want to talk to him, that's all. Find out if he's
seen her around." Alice dragged one fingernail down Jasper's forearm as she looked up at
him from under her lashes. That girl was deadly. Bella shifted uncomfortably at my side.

Jasper considered Alice for a long moment. Alice never took her eyes from his and the air
positively sparked between them.

"Club St. Germain. Chet Baker's playing there tomorrow night. He never misses Chet,"
Jasper ducked his head and chuckled ruefully, "and Chet never misses him."

I narrowed my eyes at him, trying to figure out what he was implying there.

Alice leaned further into him and purred, "See? Was that so hard?" Jasper looked back up at
her and the two of them shared a long intimate look until Bella cleared her throat in
irritation.

"Well, thank you Mr. Whitlock…" Bella began.

"Jasper," he snapped.

"Excuse me?"

"Mr. Whitlock is my damned father. I'm Jasper," he nearly snarled.

"Okay, then…Jasper. Thank you for that information. Now Alice and I will be going…" Bella
started to stand and without thinking, my hand shot out to her arm to restrain her. She
looked down at my hand, then at me, but I didn't let her go.

"What did you mean that Chet never misses him?" I asked.

Jasper leaned back in his chair and examined me, his pale blue eyes intense and slightly
unnerving, especially paired with the faint map of scars up the right side of his face. "You
play with these guys. You know what goes down. You know what I mean."

Bloody hell.

"You're not going near this James bloke," I snarled, speaking to Bella but not taking my eyes
from Jasper.

"Excuse me?" Bella said, her voice tight with disbelief.

"I said you're not going near him."

She huffed and yanked her arm out from underneath my hand, crossing her arms tightly
over her chest.

"And your name is…?"

That snagged my attention and I turned to look at her, puzzled.

"I told you my name just a minute ago…"

Bella rolled her eyes, "I know that. I was being sarcastic. I met you ten minutes ago when
you charged over here and practically assaulted me before you insulted my hair. And now
you're nosing into my affairs and forbidding me to go meet this man? What gives you the
right to interfere?"

Alright, when she put it like that, she had a point. I was acting like a madman, like I already
knew her and had some claim on her. Only it felt like I did know her. After all, she'd
completely invaded my every waking moment, and most of my sleeping ones, for the last
two days. It felt like she was mine, in some strange way. Except that she didn't know that
and clearly didn't feel the same way…yet.

I sighed and raked my hands through my hair.

"I apologize. I'm sorry I'm acting so rashly. It's just….when I saw you here, I recognized you
from the park. It seemed like I knew you already, which is of course ridiculous, since we've
never spoken, but then…" I trailed off helplessly. What was happening to me? Why was I
spewing this rubbish at her? Bella looked at me, arms crossed, eyebrow cocked, still
waiting for a coherent explanation of my behavior. Of course, there wasn't one. I was simply
going mad.

"But then I saw you talking to Jasper," I waved a hand in his direction and glanced over, but
he was gone. And so was Alice. Bella saw the surprise on my face and turned to look. She
gasped when she discovered the two of them missing.

"Where's Alice?"

I smirked at her and waved my hand at Jasper's empty chair again. "I can guess."

Her eyes widened and she shot to her feet. "I have to find her! He could…the way he was
looking at her…he might…"

I put a steadying hand on her arm. "Calm down. Your friend looked more than capable of
handling herself and plenty willing."

Bella narrowed her eyes at me. "Don't be ridiculous! She just met him, there's no way she
would do something like that! He must have lured her off. They have to still be here."

She craned her neck to look around the smoky club, and then she started to move away, like
she was going to go poking into every dark corner of Le Tabou looking for Alice. God only
knew what she'd find there.

"Stop! Sit down! I'll go look for her."

Bella paused for a moment, then she did as I commanded.

"I know the place better. Just stay put. Drink your wine. I'll be right back."

"Okay."

"Do you promise?" I pressed. "You're not going to vanish on me again?"

She looked puzzled but nodded and folded her hands on the table in front of her.

"I'll wait right here. Just hurry before they're gone. Please!"

I chuckled and shook my head, but I headed off across the club to a dark alcove where I
suspected they'd ended up, assuming they were still here at all. That corner was where
everyone ended up when they were doing what Jasper and Alice were likely doing. Sure
enough, there in the shadows I saw the tightly joined figures, Jasper's body curled around
Alice, her tiny hands twisted in his hair. I cleared my throat lightly to let them know I was
there.

Alice gasped and straightened and Jasper pulled away from her just enough to let her see
me, swiveling his head to glare at me.

"Bella was worried. I said I'd check on you," I muttered, giving Jasper an apologetic shrug.
He was still a scary-looking prat, but Alice looked more than willing and he was entitled to
his fun. I never would have barged in if not for Bella.

"Oh…ha!" Alice laughed, flustered, waving her hands in front of her, "Yeah… poor kid. I
should really make sure she gets home okay." She pushed away from Jasper a little and
straightened her rumpled skirt.

Jasper turned to stare at her in disbelief. She mouthed "Sorry" at him.

"I could take her home," I volunteered quickly.

Alice looked back to me, eyebrows raised, appraising me.

I put my hands up in front of me. "I promise, she'll be okay."

She looked at me another long moment, her gaze curiously knowing. "Yeah, I know. Okay.
Have fun. Tell her I'll see her…later. And that she shouldn't worry." Then she laughed
lightly, "But she will anyway!"

"See you tomorrow," I said to her.

"Tomorrow?"

"St. Germain," I said tersely, looking hard at Jasper. "You're not going there alone."

Alice looked a little curious, but she let it go, and I turned away to hurry back and find Bella.
So help me, if she was gone…

But she was right where I'd left her, eyes darting around the club, taking in everything
around her. Her wine glass was empty in front of her. I hadn't really meant for her to drink
it, but maybe it was a good thing. She could stand to relax a little.

Bella shot to her feet when she saw me approach.

"She's fine," I said, putting my hands on Bella's shoulders lightly. Mostly I was just looking
for any excuse I could find to touch her. The straps of her dress were narrow where they
passed over her shoulders and my fingers curled around her bare skin, distracting me.
"They just wanted to, um…get to know each other in private. She said she'd see you later."
Bella's eyes widened and she grew even paler.

"I told her I would walk you home," I continued, "Make sure you got home safe. Are you
ready?"

She stood there staring at me for an immeasurable moment, probably trying to decide
whether to go hunt Alice down herself, whether she should leave with me. I watched the
thoughts play across her face, hoping she would finally decide I was safe. I smiled
encouragingly. Something flickered in her eyes then and slowly she nodded. My smile
broadened.

Dusting off my best gentlemanly manners, I offered her my arm and she cautiously slipped
her little hand into the crook of my elbow. I glanced back at the stage where Felix and
Laurent had kept playing in my absence, a duo now instead of a trio. Felix lowered his
trumpet for a moment and caught my eye. I shrugged and nodded my head at Bella. He
threw back his head and laughed out loud before giving me a thumbs up and a wave of the
hand towards the door.

"My coat…" Bella murmured, looking up at me. "Alice checked them when we came in."

I steered her towards the coat check and convinced Sabine to give us Bella's even though
we didn't have the claim ticket. The black coat I knew was gone, replaced by a light grey-
blue drapey one. I missed the black, but I had to confess, the color of this one did something
wonderful to her skin. I held it open for her and slid it up onto her shoulders, allowing my
fingers to slip through her hair just a bit before I backed up. It was just as soft and silky as it
looked. And she smelled fantastic.

"Ready?" I asked, hands in my pockets, doing my very best to look harmless and safe.

Bella just nodded. She looked a little dazed and I worried that her glass of wine might be
getting to her a bit. I ushered her ahead of me out the door of Le Tabou and up the
crumbling stone steps to the street level.

"Be careful," I said, reaching out in front of me to take her elbow, "the steps are always wet
and slippery."

She nodded her head once. She didn't seem all too steady in those black high heels to begin
with, the last thing I needed was for her to take a spill on the stairs under my watch.

"So," I said, once we'd reached the street, "where do you live?"

"Um, the corner of Rue Jacob and Rue de Seine."

"Okay, this way." I nudged her with my shoulder in the right direction. I wanted to take her
hand, but I didn't know how that would go over, so I kept my hands in my pockets for now.
We walked in silence for a few blocks, but Bella's mind was clearly busy. She kept her eyes
on the pavement and her eyebrows were knit together in a frown. I wanted to ask her what
she was thinking, but I wasn't sure how, so I stayed quiet.

This idiocy that seemed to descend on me in her presence was truly baffling. Emmett's
teasing aside, I did know my way around the fairer sex. I wasn't some ruthless lothario, but
I knew how to talk to women. I'd spent the last five years in Paris flirting with French
women, the women who wrote the book on flirting. I knew how to do this. Except not with
Bella, apparently. When I opened my mouth to talk to her, I never had any idea what would
come out and that was terrifying.

But walking the whole way home without saying anything to her was unacceptable, so I
needed to start talking. And I needed to get her to talk to me.

"Why are you trying to find this James fellow?"

She looked sideways at me briefly before cutting her eyes back to the front.

"Um, we may have a mutual friend."

"Seemed awfully urgent if you were just hoping to catch up," I prodded gently.

Bella said nothing, she just flexed her hands into fists.

"Just tell me, Bella," I pleaded, "Maybe I can help."

She took a deep breath, as if she was considering that, before she started to speak. "My best
friend, Rose, from back home in Forks, came to Paris last fall to study. A couple of months
after she got here she stopped writing to me. I didn't hear a word about her until Alice
wrote me at New Year's. Rose was her roommate and she just moved out without warning
in November. No one's heard from her since. As soon as I got Alice's letter, I came to find
her."

I let that sink in for a minute before I reached out and snagged Bella's arm, pulling her to a
halt next to me.

"Let me get this straight. You came all the way to Paris by yourself to find your friend?"

She nodded.

"Why isn't her family looking for her?"

"She doesn't have any family. Her parents died when we were kids. She only has me."

"And what about your parents? They were okay with you doing this?"
Bella looked at her toes as she stalled. "They don't know. I didn't tell them. I just left.
Well…they know now. I sent a letter when I got here explaining."

I was speechless. Absolutely bloody speechless. Emmett was right. Extraordinary. All I
could do was throw my head back and laugh. Bella's head shot up and she scowled at me
like I was crazy.

"I fail to see what's so funny about this situation!"

"Bella, you ran away from home….alone…all the way to Paris…I'm sorry," I said between
gasping laughter, "It's just the very last thing I expected you to tell me!"

"Well, what was I supposed to do?"

I stopped laughing and looked at her. Her devotion to this girl Rose was really…so selfless.
It stunned me. I reached out and wrapped my hand around her arm, giving it a little
squeeze. "I'm sorry I laughed," I said, "You just surprised me."

She didn't pull away from my hand, so I let it slide down her arm until I was lightly grasping
her fingertips with mine. A flicker of uncertainty passed across her face, but she didn't drop
my hand. I turned to the front and tightened my grip, urging her to fall into step next to me.

"So," I continued with a deep breath, "What's James got to do with all this?"

"All I have to go on are the letters Rose sent me. She mentioned a few names and places. She
mentioned James, she said he was a business contact of Royce. And she said they met him in
jazz clubs. So that's what we were doing tonight."

"Who's Royce?"

"Her beau. Alice doesn't trust him, but I don't know…in her letters he sounded perfect."

"Have you asked him where she is?"

"That's who we're trying to find. We don't know anything about him, not even his last name.
Don't you see? That's why we need to find James."

She was silent for a moment before she nervously cleared her throat and continued, "What
did Jasper mean back at the club when he said you knew what went down?"

"Um, just that this guy James might be involved in some unpleasant stuff."

"What kind of unpleasant stuff?"

"Just…things you should stay away from," I muttered, looking off to the side.
She snorted in disgust and crossed her arms over her chest.

"What?"

"Just tell me!" she huffed, "Everybody thinks I'm such a little girl and I can't handle it! I'm an
adult! I'm here, aren't I? Whatever it is, I want to know! I need to know!"

"Okay, fine," I sighed in exasperation, "There's a lot of drug use in the jazz scene. Chet uses, I
know that. What Jasper was saying is that James is going to St. Germain to sell to him."

"Sell him what?"

"Heroin."

"What's that?"

"A drug, it gets you high."

Bella was quiet for a second, then she turned her face to look at me, "Like in Reefer
Madness?"

I laughed out loud, my voice echoing off the empty cobblestone streets around us. "Uh,
yeah. Sort of."

There was a long silence before Bella spoke again.

"You said that a lot of jazz musicians do that. Do you?"

"No! Absolutely not!"

"Why not? I mean, if all the rest of them are doing it…."

"Bella, it's not like Reefer Madness. It's so much worse. These blokes who do that stuff…you
can't imagine. It does horrible things to them."

"So why do they do it? If it's so bad?"

"Because for a few moments it's glorious. But what comes after…no, it's just not worth it."

Bella was quiet at my side for a while as she digested that.

"And Jasper says this guy James sells this stuff?"

"Yeah, so he says. Which is why I'm going with you tomorrow to St. Germain."
"Wait a minute," Bella pulled on my hand to stop me, "What do you mean, you're going with
me?"

"Bella, I just told you what kind of rubbish this James bloke is involved with. Do you really
think I'd let you go off to meet him alone?"

"But I just met you," she protested. "Why would you come with me?"

"Just…" I paused and pinched the bridge of my nose in frustration. "Will you just let me do
this? Please?"

Bella looked at me long and hard, her large dark eyes flickering all over my face.

"I'll just show up there anyway, Bella. You might as well let me come get you and walk you
over."

After another moment of consideration she seemed to relent and we kept walking. That
was good, because there was no way on earth I would ever let her walk in there without me.

"We're here," she said softly a few moments later. We stopped in front of her building. The
street was dark here, as the nearest gas light was half way down the block.

"Right, then. What time are you and Alice going over there tomorrow?"

"Oh…I don't…we didn't discuss it before…" I couldn't see the exact shade of Bella's skin in
the dark, but I would swear from her voice that she was blushing.

"Ah, yes... Alice got distracted before we could finalize plans," I chuckled. "Okay, why don't I
come by to get you at nine? What apartment?"

"Um... twelve. Apartment twelve."

"Alright. Nine, then."

"Edward, you don't have to come with us tomorrow…"

I opened my mouth to protest but she raised one hand to cut me off, reaching out and laying
her other hand on my forearm.

"But it's nice of you to do it anyway. I….well, thank you."

I don't know what happened next. I really don't. I swear I didn't plan it. I wasn't even
thinking about it. Okay, that was a lie, I was thinking about it, but I was absolutely not
planning on acting on it. But she had her hand on my arm, and she was looking up at me
with those amazing brown eyes and her face was suddenly…finally…soft and relaxed, and I
don't know. The next thing I knew I was leaning in and my lips were on hers and it
was….heaven. And she didn't pull away. She gasped a little and stiffened, but then she just
stood still, with my lips on hers. The second I realized what I'd done, I froze. I didn't try to
deepen the kiss, no matter how much I wanted to, I just held still. Then I thought I felt her
soften against me, ever so slightly. So I moved my lips a fraction, just the barest caress of my
lips on hers.

Then I pulled away and opened my eyes cautiously to see what sort of damage I'd done.
Bella was standing stock still, her face absolutely frozen, her expression stunned. Her eyes
shot to mine, wide and slightly horrified.

"Oh, God," I muttered, "I am so sorry, Bella. I didn't mean to do that."

She blinked rapidly and inhaled sharply.

"I mean, I did mean to do it…I wanted to do it, but God…not now! I don't know what the hell I
was thinking, just please…"

She raised her hand sharply to cut me off. "It's alright. I know things are…different here. I'm
just not used to…."

"Bella, no! It's nothing like that! I wasn't expecting…oh, bloody hell!" The endless flow of
rubbish from my mouth simply would not stop, "Look, I'm a total wanker. That was
completely inappropriate. You're just….You're just so lovely and I feel like I already know
you and I just…"

"Edward, it's okay. Really." She reached out again to place a reassuring hand on my arm,
then her eyes dropped to her hand and she snatched it back away like she'd been burned.

I groaned in frustration.

"Look, can I still come get you tomorrow?" I closed my eyes and shook my head rapidly.
"Never mind. Even if you hate me now, I'm still coming to get you tomorrow. I won't let you
go alone."

"Edward?"

"Yes?"

"I don't hate you."

Then she turned without another word and let herself into the dark apartment building.

I stumbled back across the street and leaned against a darkened storefront, watching the
windows of her building until I saw the lights flick on in one. Once I knew she was safely
inside, I finally turned and headed home. That was a disaster of unparalleled proportions,
but somehow, inexplicably, I felt like flying.
Chapter 7

When I'm with him, nothing else exists. We've only known each other for a few short weeks,
but it's like we live in a secret bubble. I've never felt like this about anyone, and yesterday he
told me that wishes we could spend every minute together. He told me no one else would ever
love me like he does. I think he's right. I'm sorry I've been such a terrible pen pal lately, but I
can't help but feel that I should explore this, Royce and me, while I can. One day you'll know
what I mean.

}-----

He kissed me. Out of nowhere, just leaned in and kissed me. It was chaste and sweet, and
nothing like the way Jacob kissed me, like he was out to prove something. He didn't press
his advantage, didn't even put his hands on me. Just a kiss. Wholly unexpected and
confusing, but perfect in a way I hadn't anticipated.

Five minutes later, I was still leaning against the door to Alice's apartment, trying to calm
my racing heart. Something happened to me when I was around Edward. I had felt it in the
park that night, the hum of electricity, the buzzing attraction, but tonight it had changed,
evolved. Every time we spoke, even when I was irritated or confused, that buzz remained.

I found myself torn between being annoyed about the way he affected me and intrigued by
the way I obviously affected him. Remembering the stuttering mess he had turned into after
our kiss and earlier at the club, I smiled to myself.

I was pulled out of my thoughts by a horrible howling sound coming from the little balcony
off of our living area. It wasn't big enough to hold more than a tiny chair, but it overlooked a
small, open air park in the middle of the building. Alice told me when the weather was
warm families would congregate below, while neighbors sat on their balconies and chatted
across the way.

Making my way across the apartment, I peeked out the glass doors. The howling got louder.
It seemed to be coming from just past our balcony. I pushed the door open a crack and
poked my head outside into the night air.

Sitting on the railing of our neighbor's balcony was the ugliest cat I had ever seen. It was
skinny and ragged looking, its tortoiseshell pattern patched and blotchy. Part of one ear
was torn off, and it stared at me with a single wide yellow eye.

It gave another pitiful yowl and leapt across the gap to where I stood, door ajar. It cocked its
head and blinked, licking its lips.
"Hey, buddy," I murmured, extending a hand out toward its face. It rubbed up against my
hand, purring slightly. "Aren't you sweet?"

"Mreow?" It took a few tentative steps forward.

"Poor thing, out here in the cold all alone. Are you hungry?"

A low, rumbling purr rang out from its chest, and a twinge of pity surged through me. I
knew what it was like to be alone. This cat was fending for itself. Maybe it could use a
helping hand. I patted its head again and straightened up.

"Stay here, honey, I'll be right back."

I ducked into the kitchen and grabbed a piece of ham from the icebox. Dashing back to the
balcony, I dropped the meat in front of it. It knocked against my hand a couple more times
before grabbing the slice of ham in its mouth and jumping across to the next balcony.

I watched as the cat performed an impressive series of maneuvers until it landed on ground
near the inside wall of the building. It slunk off into the shadows, still carrying its prize.

Something about that ragged cat tugged at me, and I was still thinking about it as I changed
for bed. I wondered how many people walked past it as it prowled for scraps. Where did it
sleep? How did it survive out there without anyone to look after it? It was stupid, really. It
was only a cat.

After tossing and turning for a half hour, something clicked. I wasn't worried about the cat;
I was worried about me. Worried that my first foray into the wide world would end
disastrously. Worried that I would end up like that cat, ragged and worn, with no one but
myself to rely on.

The trip to Paris was completely out of character for me. I should have spoken to my father
and had him make arrangements to wire information to the French police and file a missing
persons report. It would have been easy to ship my letters off to Alice and sit at home,
insulated and safe, waiting for word. I had made the decision to come quickly and
impulsively, and I had never looked back.

I guess I couldn't blame Alice and Edward for laughing, even though it was annoying how
shocked they were when I told them my story. It was absurd. My parents would be furious. I
would be lucky if my father didn't show up to drag me back to Washington himself. And yet,
something in me was elated about the changes I had made. I got on a train, I sailed across
the ocean. I made it, all by myself. Harrowing? Certainly. But I made it, and that had to count
for something.

My life in Seattle was predictable. A place for everything and everything in its place. The
people who surrounded me lived lives of happily ordered banality. It was a life I was
destined to live too, and I had no qualms about it, not really. But I had changed the order of
things by running off the way I had, and I had no idea what the consequences would be.
Today had been one monumental change after another. I got my hair cut for the first time in
years and put on more makeup than I had ever worn. I went to two separate bars and got
kicked out of one. I drank a glass of wine.

All those new experiences paled in comparison to how I had acted around Edward,
however. In the span of a few short hours, we had introduced ourselves, taken a moonlit
walk, held hands, and kissed. Even in the moment, when I was muddled and confused by the
way things were going, I didn't resist. It didn't even occur to me to resist. I liked it, so much
it scared me. I couldn't decide if I was betraying Jacob or not. To be honest, I didn't know
how to define my relationship with him. He never asked me to be his girlfriend or took me
on a real date. I suppose some of the time we had spent on the beach together counted, but
Jacob always treated us as a foregone conclusion. Edward was different. He was an
unknown.

I liked the unknown, much to my surprise. For the time being, I would embrace it. If I was
going to go to Hell, I might as well do it thoroughly.

*****

Alice didn't make it back until past noon the next day. She pranced in, barely noticing the
glares I was sending her from the armchair in our living area.

"Good morning," she sang, wandering past me to her bedroom.

"It's not morning," I groused. "Where have you been? I was worried sick!"

"Where do you think I've been?" she laughed, pulling off her clothes as she walked to the
bathroom. "I'm telling you, Bella, Jasper is… he's so different."

I snorted. "I completely agree, assuming different means rude, angry, and unhelpful."

She turned the shower on and grabbed a towel from her room. "He's none of those things,
don't be silly. You're just seeing what he wants you to see. He's smart and articulate, and
there's something swimming there, just beneath the surface, you know? He's just a little
lost."

"Aren't you afraid that now that you've given him what he wants, you'll never see him
again? I don't think he was interested in your personality, Alice."

She stuck her head out of the bathroom and scowled at me.

"Not that you don't have a lovely personality," I amended, rolling my eyes a little.

"Damn right," she called, slamming in the door. A couple of seconds later, she opened it a
crack. "And for your information, Miss Know-it-all, Jasper is coming with us tonight. So
there!" And she slammed the door again.

I sighed and stomped back to my room. I didn't like the thought of Jasper coming with us
tonight, but after everything that Edward had told me about the situation we were likely
walking into, his presence would feel like less of an annoyance. At the very least, he was
kind of scary looking. I wondered how he got those scars.

Alice was at her worst that afternoon. When I told her Edward was coming to walk with us
to St. Germain, she got a big smile on her face and started throwing scarves and skirts
around her room. When I complained, she straightened up and dropped what she was
holding into a pile on her bed.

"Don't think I've let you off the hook for not telling me about him," she said, hands on her
hips. I was beginning to recognize that stance as the one she used when she was about to lay
into me about something.

"There was nothing to tell," I muttered, wincing as she strode forward and grabbed a
hairbrush.

"Sit," she commanded, pointing to the chair in front of her vanity. "I'm going to touch up
your hair and you're going to tell me about Edward. All the details, including your walk
home last night."

She looked a little threatening with a hairbrush in her hand, so I sighed and told her the
whole story, starting with the night we had made eye contact in the park. As I spoke, I
watched her deftly re-curl my hair with the brush, smoothing everything back into place.

"He just kissed you?" she said excitedly, thumping my shoulder with her brush. "What did
you do?"

"What do you think I did?" I spun around in my chair and looked up at her with wide eyes. "I
ran inside as fast as I could. Alice, I barely even know him!"

"Well, at least you'll see him again tonight," she sighed. She pulled a skirt and a silky white
blouse from the pile on her bed and thrust them into my hands. "Get dressed; he'll be here
in an hour."

I was almost to my room when I heard the door to the balcony rattle, followed by a quiet
meow. Changing course, I dropped my clothes on the armchair in the living room and made
my way to the balcony, where the cat from last night sat, staring at me expectantly.

I opened the door and crouched down, extending my hand.

"Mreow?" It rubbed against me, just like it had the night before. My heart broke a little. This
animal was clearly starved for love and attention. I felt guilty for calling it an "it" in my
head.

"You need a name, don't you?" I scratched its ears, and it started to purr. "Are you a boy or a
girl?"

It straightened up and blinked, still purring quietly. One long snaggletooth stuck out from
under its lip.

"Definitely a boy," I decided, patting his head again. He took a few tentative steps forward
so that he was standing just inside the warm apartment.

"It's cold out there, isn't it?" I probably sounded completely crazy, sitting there conversing
with a cat that had definitely seen better days, but I didn't care. I made a decision, scooping
him up quickly and taking him to my room. What Alice didn't know wouldn't hurt her.
Safely shut up in my room with my new clothes and my new cat, I started getting ready.

"Now, what should I call you?" I mused, slipping into the skirt and buttoning it around my
waist. It was sleeker than the ones Alice had been giving me, and a little shorter. The fabric
slid silkily over my bare legs, and a foreign feeling bubbled through my chest. I felt sexy. I
snorted at the thought, pulling on my blouse and tucking it into my skirt.

"What about Rex?" I asked the cat, who was settled on my comforter, eyeing me warily. He
sneezed.

"Okay, not Rex. Don't worry, I'll come up with something good. Are you hungry?"

"Bella? Who are you talking to?" Alice's voice filtered through my door. I put my finger to
my lips and smiled at the cat. I slipped out of my room and quickly closed my door behind
me.

"Just talking to myself," I said casually. "Is it time to go yet?"

She stared at me, eyebrows pulled together suspiciously. "We're waiting for Edward,
remember?"

"Oh, of course." I breezed by her into the kitchen and filled a glass of water, grabbing
another piece of ham from the icebox.

"Hungry?" Alice was still giving me that look, like she knew I was hiding something.

"Just a little," I lied, walking back to my room. I opened the door a tiny crack and pushed in,
closing the door before she could see my cat.

"Rusty?" I tried, setting the glass on the floor and waving the piece of ham at the cat. He
didn't budge.
"Okay, not Rusty," I sighed, and he jumped off the bed, grabbing the ham from my hand.

"Bella, get out here!" Alice called. "Stop eating, or whatever you're doing, and come let me
make you up. Edward will be here in a few minutes, we don't have much time."

I gave the cat one more pat on the head and left him to enjoy his meal, sighing internally.

"Is the makeup really necessary?" I asked, watching as Alice arranged a line of pots on the
kitchen table.

"Yes. Just a little bit of color on your lips and he'll be eating out of your hand. Trust me. Now
pucker up."

When she was done, she handed me a small hand mirror.

"Why is it that every time you do this, I feel like I'm looking at a stranger in the mirror?" I
asked, marveling at my red lips and pink cheeks.

A series of soft knocks came from the door, and Alice pushed me to answer it. "Trust me,"
she said again.

When I opened the door, Edward was looking down the hallway, shifting from foot to foot
nervously. He whipped around and met my stare, his eyes widening slightly as he looked
me over.

"Bella," he breathed. "You look…what I mean is…are you ready to go?" He stuffed his hands
in his pocket and shuffled his feet again. I smiled a little at his stuttering and looked back at
Alice.

"I think so. Alice, can you grab my coat?"

Edward grabbed the coat from Alice and helped me into it, just like he had last night at the
club. It may have been my imagination, but his hands seemed to linger at my neck, resting
just for a moment in my hair. He cleared his throat and offered me his arm.

"Is Jasper meeting us there?" I asked Alice, hooking my hand into the crook of Edward's
arm. He looked a little startled at my question.

"He said he was planning on going early to get us a table," she said. "I'm sure he's already
there. He's quite a music lover." She smiled mischievously. "He showed me his records last
night. He has a huge… collection."

"I'm sure that's not all the freaky bugger showed you," Edward muttered, rolling his eyes. I
slapped his arm and frowned, and he had the decency to look a little sheepish. "What? That
bloke is scary."
True to Alice's word, Jasper was staked out at a little table, surrounded by the customary
cloud of smoke I now associated with jazz. Alice slid into the chair right next to him and put
a hand on his arm. He jolted upright, glaring at her for a second before his face relaxed. He
wasn't quite smiling, but he looked happier than he had when we walked in.

"Has Chet played a set yet?" Edward asked, pulling out a chair for me and settling in as close
as he could. His nearness messed with my head, and I noticed for the first time that he
smelled fantastic—like paint and coffee and chocolate.

"He's taking a break. Probably back with James right now. I saw him lurking around with a
few of his goons earlier." He looked down at Alice. "You should be careful when you
approach him. James doesn't like people who dig into his business."

"We just want to ask him a few questions. I don't see what all the fuss is about," she huffed.

"Of course not." Jasper frowned. "I know you think you're street smart, but there are things
out there that you don't ever want to get involved with. James is one of those things."

Alice's face hardened and she pulled away. "I've seen more than you think I have. I just
choose not to let it ruin my life."

He was about to respond when the music started again. A tall man with sandy hair stepped
up to the microphone and pulled up a trumpet. Without any kind of a lead in, he started
playing, and that strange pulsing energy I had felt at Le Tabou pulled me in. Edward seemed
to be affected by it too. He stared at the stage, spellbound by the music.

Something changed when the drummer jumped in. I started tapping my hand with the beat.
Edward grabbed my hand and tucked our hands under the table.

"Nervous?" he whispered in my ear. His breath fogged my head and made me shiver
slightly, despite the fact that the club was almost too warm.

"No, of course not," I snapped, trying to shrug off the way he made me feel. "The music just
makes me want to move."

He smiled, and it lit up his face. One side of his mouth tugged up and his white teeth flashed
in the dark. He stood up and held our hands up, bowing slightly.

"Will you dance with me, Miss Swan?"

"I don't know," I faltered, disarmed by his smile. "I'm not very coordinated. I'll probably
step on you."

"Nonsense," he insisted. "It's all in the leading."

I sighed and looked over at Alice, who nodded vigorously. Sensing victory, Edward pulled
me to my feet and led me to a tiny dance floor in the middle of the room.

"I don't know what I'm doing," I insisted.

"Then I'll just have to teach you." He put his hand on my hip and pulled my body snug
against his own. "Put your hand on my shoulder, like this." He positioned my hand and then
gently took the other. He held me like I was made of glass.

"Now follow me," he murmured, staring deeply into my eyes. I stumbled a little and looked
down at my feet. "No, don't look at your feet." He let go of my hip and took my chin in his
fingers, raising my face toward his own. "Look in my eyes. Trust, Bella. I won't let you fall."

The buzzing had grown, more intense than I had ever felt it. It was like all the air had been
sucked out of the room. I felt lightheaded.

"Why were you at Le Tabou last night?" I blurted, desperate to fill the charged silence. "I
thought you were a painter, not a musician."

He looked a little taken aback, but then he smiled again and shrugged. "I'm in the house
band there. We play when they don't have anyone special coming in. I've always played
piano. It was one of the things my mother insisted I learn."

He eyes became a little guarded when he spoke of his mother.

"Where is she now?" I asked tentatively.

"Still in England." His tone made it clear that the subject was closed.

"Oh." His whole body had tensed up. I cast around for a new topic. "So is painting a hobby
then?"

"A hobby?" He looked mildly amused. "I suppose. I sell what I can, mostly tacky little tourist
shots of the city. When you saw me in the park I was working on something more personal."
He paused and stared over my head, apparently deep in thought. "Art is the only way I can
get out the things that crowd my head. When I really get going, I get completely lost in the
painting. Time stops, nothing else exists. It's a fantastic feeling."

"It must be wonderful," I said, admiring the way his face transformed when he described
his art. "It sounds like how I used to feel when I wrote."

He looked down at me, a frown creasing his forehead. "Used to? You don't anymore?"

"It was childish," I said with a shrug. I was always a little uncomfortable talking about my
old dreams. I had only really discussed it with Rose, and that was years ago. Even she had
no idea that I still kept my little notebooks. "I thought I would be a famous writer, like F.
Scott Fitzgerald or Mark Twain. Write the great American novel, you know? But I'm not
talented enough for all that, so when I started college I decided to teach English instead.
Maybe someday I'll teach the author who writes the book that changes the world."

"There's nothing childish about following your dreams," he said firmly. I was about to argue
with him, but a large hand clapped on his shoulder and he dropped his arms in surprise.

"What the—" He turned to face the owner of the hand. "Emmett! What are you doing here?"

He stepped back and slipped an arm around my waist, revealing a tall, broad man with a
wide smile and cheerful dimples.

"You!" I gasped. It was the man who had helped me at the train station when I first arrived.

Edward frowned deeply and looked between us. "Do you two know each other?" He
sounded defensive. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was jealous.

"I don't think so," Emmett said. He looked a little confused, but his smile remained.

"You bought me a map at the train station a few days ago," I explained. His eyes lit up in
recognition.

"I remember now! Did you find your friend?"

"I did, thank you. She's here with me tonight."

Edward was still staring at the two of us with a scowl upon his face. "Emmett, this is Bella
Swan. She's the girl I was telling you about the other day. Bella, this is Emmett McCarty, he's
a good friend of mine."

"Pleased to meet you," I stuttered, a little surprised that Edward had been talking about me.

"You're that girl," Emmett mused, grinning wildly. "Well now, that's very interesting."

"Emmett," Edward growled. "Not that it isn't great to see you, but did you need something?"

"No, just wanted to stop by and say hello. I admit, I was hoping for an invite to Esme's
tonight."

Edward sighed. "Of course. We need to speak with someone here, and I think we're going to
stay to listen to the rest of Chet's next set, but you're welcome to come with us when we
leave. Esme mentioned a party tonight, I'm sure it will be the usual madhouse."

"Excellent," Emmett chuckled. "Sorry to interrupt. I'll go enjoy the music and catch up with
you later."

Edward pulled me back into his arms, holding me even closer than before. "I'm sorry about
that," he said stiffly. "Emmett can be a little enthusiastic."

"Its fine," I reassured him. "He seems very nice."

Edward nodded curtly and stared over the top of my head. He clearly wasn't going to speak
again, so I asked the question that was burning in my mind.

"Why were you talking about me? To Emmett, I mean?"

He started and looked down at me. He stared into my eyes, his green eyes smoldering and
intense. I wondered what he saw when he stared at me like that.

"Bella, do you have any idea what you do to me when you're around?" He raised an eyebrow
and when I shook my head, he sighed. "Look, I'm just going to say this, since whenever we
talk I turn into a bloody raving lunatic anyway. You'll think I'm mad, but I don't care
anymore."

"Edward? You're not making any sense."

He barked a short laugh. "Right, well that's the whole problem, isn't it? You…you fascinate
me. You have since I saw you crying in the park that night."

"I wasn't crying the night I saw you," I protested. Then I felt the blood drain from my face.
"Wait… were you there the night before?"

He nodded reluctantly. "I'm sorry, I swear I wasn't trying to spy on you or anything. You
were so beautiful, and I couldn't look away. You've completely taken over the painting I was
doing when I first saw you, and you're not even facing forward in it. Your back inspired me
more than the faces of all the women I've seen since I first came to Paris. I feel like we're
supposed to know each other, like you're meant for me. And it sounds bloody stupid and
you probably think I'm stalking you but I swear all I want is to know you better. To spend
time with you."

He finished abruptly and bent slightly, getting very close to my face. "So that's it. You know
how I feel. It's up to you now."

I opened my mouth to speak, but I had no idea how to respond to his impassioned speech.
His face fell slightly, but he nodded and led me back to our table. Alice looked up from her
conversation with Jasper.

"It's about time you got here. I was about to go over without you. Are you ready? Jasper says
James is over by the bar."

Edward's hand gripped my own and I nodded. "Of course. Let's get this over with." Without
waiting for Alice, I turned and started toward the bar. She jumped up to join me, and Jasper
hung to the back of our tiny group.
"Which one is James?" I asked her when she reached me. She nodded over to the end of the
bar where a scruffy man in a dark suit stood flanked by two huge men. I took a deep breath
and walked over to him quickly.

"Excuse me." I used my most business-like tone, making eye contact with the man in the
middle. "Are you James?"

His lips twitched and his eyes roved over me hungrily. I wanted to flinch back into Edward,
but I stood my ground. My heart pounded, and I wondered what Rose had thought when she
met this man. He didn't seem like the kind of person a gentleman like Royce would spend
time with.

"That depends why you're asking, sweet cheeks," he rasped. He had a strong New York
accent, harsher than the slight edge that Alice had. It made him sound like the mobsters in
the movies. The men on either side of him laughed darkly, and I swear Edward made a
growling sound, low and from the back of his throat.

"My name is Bella Swan," Edward's hand tightened slightly on mine, but I kept going, "and
I'm looking for a friend of mine. I was told you may know where he is."

"A friend?" James asked. He looked at me skeptically. "I doubt we have mutual friends."

"His name is Royce."

A flicker of recognition flashed over his face, but then it was as if a mask slid over his
features. He narrowed his eyes at me.

"I don't know any Royce, little girl. And if you know what's good for you, you'll stop asking
questions."

Edward pushed in front of me, sandwiching himself between James and me.

"Don't threaten her," he snarled.

"I wasn't threatening," James said lowly. "Just informing Bella Swan here that she shouldn't
go poking her nose where it doesn't belong. Accidents happen."

Alice threw herself into the group. "And just who do you think you are?" she asked, arms
crossed in front of her. "All we want to know is where this Royce character is. What's the big
secret?"

The man on James' left moved forward, towering over tiny Alice. He grabbed her arm and
yanked her roughly. Edward and Jasper both moved at the same time, but Jasper was faster.
He pushed Alice back and twisted the man's wrist until he let go of her with a grunt. He
grabbed the man's collar and shoved him back against the bar.
"Didn't anyone ever tell you how to treat a lady?" he growled. I thought it was a rather
ironic question, especially considering the way he had treated Alice in the short time they
had known each other, but since he was defending her, I didn't speak up.

A short, nervous man approached us, rubbing his hands together.

"Is everything all right, monsieur?" he asked James, his eyes sweeping from Edward's
protective stance, to James' sneer, to Jasper's fists clenched around the tall man's collar.

"Everything's just fine," James said silkily. "Although I'm afraid our friends here have worn
out their welcome." The small man's eyes grew a little bit wider and he nodded.

"I understand, Mr. LaFave. We don't want any trouble."

He turned to Jasper and Edward. "I'm sorry, but you'll have to leave. You're disturbing our
customers and distracting them from the show."

Jasper took a step back, releasing the man and stepping in front of Alice. "Fine," he said
shortly. "We were just leaving anyway." He nodded to Edward, who grabbed my arm and
towed me toward the door. As we left, we passed the table where Emmett had settled to
watch the show. Edward gave him a terse nod and he followed us out of the club.

"That was helpful," he muttered to me.

Alice started laughing, quietly at first and then getting louder.

"What is it with you and getting kicked out of bars?" she wheezed, slapping me lightly on
the arm. Edward frowned.

"What is she talking about?" he demanded.

"Um…we sort of got kicked out of Les Trois Maillets last night."

Alice was still laughing a little, and Jasper was watching her with amusement.

"How did you manage that?" he asked, smiling for the first time.

"Bella knocked a guy out."

Emmett stopped in his tracks and stared at me, a huge smile on his face.

"You little con artist. I had you pegged for the helpless, damsel in distress type."

"It was an accident," I started, before I realized what he had said. "And excuse me, but I am
not a damsel in distress. I would have been just fine if you hadn't helped me."
"Bella is kind of extraordinary, Emmett," Edward said quietly. Emmett's smile got
impossibly bigger, and he winked once.

"I had a feeling she might be." After another significant glance at Edward, he started
walking again, falling in step next to me.

"So what's your story, Bella? What brings you to grand Paris?"

"I'm looking for my friend. She used to be Alice's roommate, and she disappeared in
November. I was worried, so I came to help look for her."

And then, just like Alice and Edward had, Emmett laughed. His laughter was infectious, but I
was getting so sick of everyone finding my story funny that I stayed stonily silent. Edward
kept his chuckles mostly muffled, shooting me an apologetic glance.

"And you were looking for your friend by talking to that shady looking fellow at the bar?
Who is she, a kingpin?"

I frowned again, irritated that he was still making light of everything. "My friend is Rosalie
Hale. Before she moved out of Alice's apartment, she was seeing a man named Royce, and
Royce and James do business together. Do you have a problem with that?"

He finally stopped laughing. "Rosalie Hale," he mused. "That name sounds familiar."

My heart leapt. "She's tall, with long blonde hair. Really beautiful. Oh! Alice, did you bring
that photo?"

Alice dug into her handbag and came up with the photograph of Rose and I that I had shown
around on the first day of my search. It was a little bent, but our faces were still clear as day.

"I've seen this girl," Emmett said immediately. "Sweet kid, a real knockout too. Kind of
quiet, though. I met her at a party once, she was with Royce King."

Royce King. A last name. I almost wept. But something Emmett said bothered me.

"Quiet? Rose?"

"Yeah, I don't know that I heard her say more than five words the whole time I was there. I
thought she was shy."

"That's odd," I said. "Rose always has an opinion about everything. She's never afraid to
speak up, even around total strangers."

Emmett shrugged. "I don't know what to tell you. She looked happy enough."
I filed his comment away for further thought, and then dived straight back in. "Do you know
where Royce lives?"

"I don't know him very well," Emmett said, frowning a little. "I don't even know what
exactly he does. I only met him briefly at a couple of parties thrown by some colleagues. I
could ask around, but I don't know much except that he's English and he moved to Paris
right after the war."

My face fell and I slowed down again. Without an address or a phone number, Royce's last
name didn't really do me any good. Rose was just as lost as she was before the evening
started.

"We'll find her," Edward whispered in my ear, hugging my shoulders snugly. "I promise."

A sudden burst of sound greeted us as we turned a corner, and I saw a three story house
near the end of the street, lit up like a Christmas tree.

"It's been too long since I've been to one of Esme's shindigs," Emmett said fondly. He stuck
his hands in his pockets and started whistling cheerily.

"Who's Esme?" I asked, shrinking from the light and sound that seemed to erupt from the
house as we approached.

"Esme is a darling," Edward said fondly. A soft smile lit his face, and I felt a pang of jealousy.
"I live with her, she's put me up since I left home. You'll love her. She throws these parties,"
he gestured toward the front door as we approached, "and invites artists and actors and
musicians. She's a kind of modern day muse, I guess you could say."

"You live with this woman?" My voice got perceptively higher, and Edward quirked an
eyebrow at me.

"Of course. She doesn't even charge me rent. It's a bargain." He grinned again and my
stomach clenched. So much for being his inspiration. He was already living with a muse.

The door flew open and warm yellow light flooded the doorstep.

"Edward! You brought friends, que magnifique!" A slender woman in a wine colored dress
hurried down to the walk and embraced Edward warmly. She was beautiful, but definitely
older than him by at least five years, probably more. She kissed his cheek and smoothed his
hair back lightly. Then she turned to face me, and her face brightened.

"And who is this?"

Chapter 8

"Est-ce la fille?" Esme asked, arching her eyebrow at me.

Bella looked at me with confusion and…something else in her eyes. If I didn't know better,
I'd have thought she looked angry. But I couldn't think of what could have made her angry,
so I just smiled at her and hoped that she was prepared for the insanity that awaited her
inside.

"Ah…yes. This is the girl," I answered, rubbing the back of my neck with my free hand. Let
the teasing and the inappropriate displays of affection with strangers commence.

"Aha, I knew it!" Esme purred, "I told you that I saw a woman in your eyes and voilà! Here
she is. You naughty boy, trying to hide her from us."

"I wasn't hiding her from you, Esme, I just didn't want to scare her off."

"Don't be absurd, Edward. What could possibly scare her off?" she asked, eyes wide and
innocent. Then she turned and leaned back through the door, "Carlisle, allez! She is here!"

I groaned and rolled my eyes before I looked at Bella apologetically. Her eyebrows were
still knit together and her face was stern as she watched Esme. Esme spun back to Bella, her
face lit up with her radiant smile. Without warning, she reached out and seized Bella by the
shoulders, pulling her in tight, and kissing both of her cheeks quickly.

"Vous êtes charmant, ma chère! You are charming. You will keep him on his toes. I can see
it. Not one to be messed with, you are. Not like these silly French girls. Non!" Esme turned to
me, "There is passion in this one, Edward."

And with that she released Bella, who looked positively stunned. I reached out and found
her hand again, squeezing lightly in encouragement. But Esme wasn't quite done with her.
She hung on tightly to Bella's other hand and began pulling her into the house behind her.

"Come, come, my darlings! Come inside. We have a few friends here already."

The house was alive with noise and smoke and music, voices coming from all sides.
Absolutely nothing new about any of it. Bella stood stock still in the entry hall, eyes wide,
looking around herself, baffled.

"You live here?" she finally whispered to me. I nodded nervously.

"Emmett!" Esme said when she spotted him ambling through the door with the others.
"Mon cher! It has been too long since you've come to see me. Why have you kept away, my
love?"

Esme finally released Bella as she crossed to Emmett, leaning into his chest, reaching up on
tiptoe to kiss his cheek. Emmett slipped one massive arm around her waist and leaned his
cheek down to meet her.

"Esme, darlin'! I'm a busy man, but you know I'll always have time for you, my love."

I rolled my eyes, "Laying it on a little thick tonight, aren't you Em?"

"Hush," Emmett laughed. "You're just jealous that Auntie Esme loves me more than you!"

I laughed but didn't disagree. Esme adored Emmett. She lay a hand on his cheek, "Emmett,
you know you are my petit chouchou."

"I hear we have some special guests?" Carlisle's quiet voice interrupted us.

"Oui, Carlisle, regardez! She is here, Edward's girl."

"Esme!"

"Bah, Edward! Carlisle just wants to meet the girl who has turned you inside out."

I felt like marching Bella right back out the door before they could humiliate me any
further. I'd already completely laid my heart on the line tonight, telling Bella exactly how
much I liked her, how much I wanted her. And I got nothing in return. The last thing I
needed right now was Esme and Carlisle going on and on about how obsessed I was with
her. She was going to run away in a panic at any moment. I tightened my grip on her hand
instinctively.

I took a deep breath. "Carlisle, this is Bella Swan. Bella, this is Carlisle, my uncle."

Bella looked at me quickly, puzzled, then her face abruptly cleared and she smiled broadly
as she reached forward to shake Carlisle's hand.

"Nice to meet you," she murmured. Carlisle beamed back at her, grasping her hand tightly
between both of his to shake it.

"Delighted to meet you as well, my dear," Carlisle returned.

"Maintenant, who are the rest of your friends, Edward?" Esme asked, shifting slightly to curl
her hands around Emmett's arm. Emmett just smiled down at her indulgently.

"Oh, um… Esme, Carlisle, this is Alice. She's Bella's roommate. And this is Jasper Whitlock.
Alice, Jasper, my uncle Carlisle and Esme." I motioned at Alice and Jasper, who were
hanging back behind Emmett for this whole exchange. Alice was grinning at Esme from ear
to ear and practically bouncing on the balls of her feet in anticipation.

"Bienvenue! Welcome," Esme crooned, walking briskly towards them, arms opened wide.
Alice looked as if she were restraining herself from leaping on Esme outright. Esme saved
her the trouble, grasping Alice just the way she'd grasped Bella and pulling her in tightly to
her, kissing her soundly on both cheeks. Esme had some trick to kissing women on the
cheek, she managed to never leave a trace of lipstick behind. She discarded the trick
entirely when kissing men on the cheek, purposefully leaving red imprints of her lips there
like a brand. After embracing Alice, she leaned back, holding her at arms' length, examining
her up and down.

"Mais oui, so chic! My dear, you are a vision."

"I've heard of you!" Alice squealed softly, "Ever since I came to Paris! It's so great to finally
meet you!"

Esme beamed, clearly pleased to pieces that her fame had preceded her. "I hope it was all
good things that you heard!"

Alice rolled her eyes. "I'll say! You're, well, you're a legend!"

Esme threw her head back and laughed, long and throaty. "And who is your gentleman, ma
petite Alice?"

"Oh, Jasper, come here!" Alice hooked Jasper's arm and yanked him to her side, "This is
Esme Benoit.The Esme Benoit!"

Jasper looked baffled as to why he should know who she was. He just shrugged at Alice and
tried to take a half step back, but Alice wouldn't let him budge. Esme turned the full force of
her discerning gaze on Jasper. She said nothing for a long moment, she just looked him in
the face. Jasper began to squirm under her penetrating gaze. I knew how he felt. She'd
pinned me with that look plenty of times. It was her "you have no secrets from me" look.

Jasper raised his hands defensively in front of him. "Hey, Alice, since you're here all safe
with your friends now, I think I'll just take off and…."

"Oh, mais non, Jasper," Esme purred, her heavily accented voice wrapping around his name
like smoke. It came out more like "Jjjah-spehr". She reached out and tucked her hand in the
crook of his arm and pulled him in tightly to her side. "You must not flee yet, mon ami. The
night has barely begun!"

I cleared my throat, needing to get a handle back on this evening. "Uh, Esme, we have some
talking to do. Do you think we could chase everybody out of the parlor or the music room or
something?"

"Oh, but of course! There are just some friends talking in the parlor. Let's shoo them out,
shall we? Emmett, my love, can you and Carlisle get some wine for our guests?"

Then Esme headed for the parlor off to our right, never letting go of Jasper's arm. He shot
Alice a slightly desperate, pleading glance over Esme's shoulder, but Alice only beamed
back at him, delighted. Poor bastard. Esme had him now.

Bella and I brought up the rear. As we neared the door a rumpled, flushed couple exited in a
hurry. I glanced down at Bella and she watched them go over her shoulder questioningly.

There was a man on the low table in the center of the room, standing on one foot, and
flapping his arms wildly. Ah, bugger all, Julian was here and in rare form. Just what Bella
did not need to see the minute she walked into my house. A young couple sat perched on
the edge of the low sofa facing the table watching Julian's performance with great interest.
And when I thought things couldn't get worse, Julian began to caw…loudly. Bella froze just
inside the room before turning her shocked face to me.

"Ah…Julian has, um, figured out how to translate the birds," I explained. "He's speaking
crow." I knew how it sounded the second it left my lips. It was bad enough I knew this
madman's name. I also just admitted to being quite familiar with his work. Bella blinked at
me for a second before the corner of her mouth twitched up slightly and she turned her full
attention back to Julian. Esme interceded just as he was beginning to hop up and down on
one foot, causing the table to shake violently. Jasper and Alice were standing frozen in front
of us, staring at Julian's display openmouthed.

"Julian, my pet!" she murmured, laying a hand on his arm. "There you are! I have been
telling my friends Hippolyte and Reynaud all about your work and they are so very eager to
meet you! Could I prevail upon you, my dear friend, to come and meet them?"

Julian, his face, nearly obscured by his enormously bushy salt and pepper beard and
moustache, smiled broadly down at Esme. "I see!" he rasped. "Word of my groundbreaking
work has infiltrated every branch of educated society! Esme, darling, please lead the way.
My friends here won't mind, I'm sure?"

The young couple on the sofa shook their heads solemnly, as if they were at the feet of the
master.

"D'accord," Esme smiled and reached up her hand to Julian as he scaled down from the
table, before speaking to me over her shoulder. "Edward, tell your friends to make
themselves at home, love."

Esme led an excited, rambling Julian out of the room and they were followed quickly by the
young couple from the sofa. There was a long moment of stunned silence before Alice threw
her head back and let out a loud guffaw. She dissolved into uncontrolled laughter that
quickly became contagious. Bella started chuckling and trying to hide it with her hand and
even Jasper cracked a crooked smile.

"What the hell was that, Edward?" Jasper rasped.

"That is my house. All the time," I shrugged.

"Oh, my…"Alice gasped, wiping at her eyes carefully, trying to dry her tears without
messing up her makeup. "That was….so….brilliant! Edward, how could you not mention that
Esme Benoit is your aunt?"

"How do you know who she is?"

Alice rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Edward! Everybody who's anybody in Parisian
society knows Esme Benoit. And I do get around in society a bit, you know. Gosh, she's
amazing!"

"She's pushy," Jasper growled.

"Oh, stop." Alice slapped his arm playfully. "You love her, you know it."

The door opened and Carlisle came in with Emmett on his heels. Carlisle had a tray of
empty wine glasses and Emmett followed, carrying several bottles of champagne in his
arms.

"Those blokes from Musée de l'Homme came tonight and decimated the wine supply, so I
raided Esme's secret stash," Carlisle explained with a wink, nodding at Emmett's bottles.

"Ooh, perfect!" Alice said, hurrying to Emmett's side to relieve him of a couple of bottles.
Carlisle popped the cork on one and poured a round of drinks for everyone. I took one from
the tray and passed it to Bella. She peered at the glass and raised her eyebrows.

"Champagne?" she asked.

"Esme's one great weakness," I explained with a smile. Bella smiled back at me hesitantly
over the rim of her glass and I felt my heart stutter a bit in my chest. Well, she may have had
no response to my earlier admission, but she was still here, with me. That had to count for
something. At any point she could have refused my help and gone home, but she hadn't
done that. So I would pin my hopes on that and keep helping her for as long as she'd let me.

"Sit down, everyone," Carlisle was saying, motioning to the slightly shabby chairs and
couches scattered across the room. Alice sat down promptly on the little couch vacated by
Julian's audience and pulled Jasper down next to her. He settled in with a scowl, but leaned
back and took a few deep gulps of his champagne. Emmett threw himself in a deep
wingback chair that I remembered him favoring.

Esme reentered the room at that moment. "Bon soir! I see Carlisle has made sure you only
have the best." She smiled as she waved one glittering hand heavy with rings at the bottles
of champagne on the table. She crossed the room quickly and settled herself down on
Jasper's other side, much to his surprise. Carlisle handed her a glass of champagne and she
pursed her lips at him, blowing him a little kiss in return. Carlisle smiled back at her, one of
the little secret smiles they often shared, before he returned to the table to open another
bottle of champagne. I led Bella by the hand over to a little loveseat situated near Alice and
Jasper's couch. She settled down next to me and took a few tentative sips of her champagne.

"Isn't it divine?" Alice said to her.

Bella sipped again and nodded vigorously. I took advantage of her distraction to slide my
arm around her back, just barely touching her. She exhaled softly and then gently leaned
into my side.

"So," she began speaking abruptly with a firmness in her voice that surprised me, "that
didn't go so well tonight."

Alice huffed and drew her tiny frame upright. "What was the deal with those goons anyway?
We just asked a little question and the next thing you know they're like a pack of snarling
dogs!" Then her entire demeanor shifted as she turned flirtatiously to Jasper. "Nice hero
moment, though, Jazz."

He scowled at the nickname, and chose to gloss over her compliment. "Seems like they
weren't happy about us asking questions."

"But why?" Bella continued. "So he knows Royce. What's the big deal? Why all the secrecy?"

"Maybe he's just being protective of his business associate?" Emmett suggested.

"This guy James is really no good," I explained to Emmett, who had missed our conversation
with Jasper at Le Tabou the night before. "He was there tonight to sell to Chet."

Emmett let out a low whistle through his teeth and smirked at Bella. "I gotta hand it to you,
kid, you never cease to surprise me. First you get yourself kicked out of two separate bars,
and then I find out you're hunting down drug dealers? What gives? You got a death wish or
something?"

"I was there to take care of her," I growled, suddenly fiercely angry now that Emmett had
laid it out like that. Not angry at him, but angry at myself for letting Bella walk into a
situation that was so obviously unsafe.

"And you did!" Emmett said, placating me. "Just…be careful. Seems like your girl Rose got
herself mixed up with a shifty character with Royce."

"But maybe Royce doesn't know about James and the drugs," Bella protested. "Rose always
described him as a good person."

Alice snorted loudly in disbelief and crossed her arms tightly over her chest. "Yeah, the
kind of good person that hangs around seedy bars with drug dealers and makes nice girls
vanish into thin air."
"Alice," Bella turned on her, eyes wide, "Rose adored him. I just can't believe Royce could be
that kind of person. And you never even met him, so how do you know?"

"I didn't have to meet him to see how he operates, "Alice's eyes were narrowed, her usually
animated face was set and hard. A whole new, surprisingly tough side of her was coming
out. "Sweeps her right off her feet and hides her away from her friends. If he was on the
level, she wouldn't be missing without a trace, that's all I'm saying."

"Well, I guess we'll just have to find him and see," Bella huffed in return.

"Well, I guess we will," Alice retorted.

"So," I interjected, to distract the two of them, "we have his last name. Now we need an
address. Emmett, do you think you might know anyone who knows where he lives?"

Emmett shook his head. "Nah, like I said, we just showed up at a couple of the same parties.
Somebody told me his name, that's all."

Jasper suddenly cleared his throat. "I could…ah, maybe ask around the wire service where I
work. The records department. Maybe they could track down an address for you."

Alice's face lit up. "Oh, Jazz! That's just swell! You're a dreamboat."

Jasper shifted uncomfortably and looked away. "It might take a couple of days. Don't get too
excited."

"Oh, quit it!" Alice cooed, leaning in to kiss his cheek.

"Alright then," I said, wanting to get this part of the evening over with so I'd maybe have a
shot at spending some time alone with Bella, "Jasper's going to see about an address for
us?"

Bella nodded glumly, clearly unhappy that she was still potentially days away from tracking
Rose down. I leaned in, tightening my arm around her and whispering in her ear, "Don't
worry, love. It will be alright."

She turned her face to look at me, her large dark eyes a little watery. Then she reached up
and put her hand on my cheek. "Thank you," she whispered. I held her gaze for a long
moment. Maybe she didn't say anything to my confession tonight, but I was sure that it
wasn't because she didn't feel anything. There was no denying…this. This thing that
happened between us when we were together. Bella felt it too, I could tell. She gently
dropped her hand away but continued to stare back into my eyes.

"Edward," Esme's voice from the couch broke me out of my entirely unwholesome thoughts,
"why don't you show Bella around the house?"
I glanced to Esme. She was leaning back on the couch, cigarette held lazily between her
fingers, eyes narrowed slightly as she smiled back and forth between Bella and me. I
grinned back at her guiltily and rose, pulling Bella to her feet behind me, "Everybody enjoy
yourselves. This party won't wrap up for hours."

Jasper made to stand up, like he was going to make his escape as well, but Esme snagged his
arm and pinned him to the couch. "Oh, no, Monsieur Jasper, you must stay and tell me about
your time in the war."

He swiveled to look at her, "How'd you know…?"

Esme reached out and trailed a finger down his scarred cheek, "We soldiers, we recognize
each other, n'est-ce pas?"

Alice smirked at Esme before scrambling to her feet and snatching up Emmett's hand. "You
guys have fun swapping war stories. Come on, big guy, show me around this funhouse!"

Emmett grinned broadly, unfolded himself from the chair and followed us out of the room. I
quickly peeled off to the right, Bella trailing behind me.

I pointed out the various rooms on the ground floor as we passed. They were all full of
people, drinking, playing music, arguing. Bella said nothing, just watched wide-eyed. We
didn't encounter Julian again although I heard him cawing from the back of the house, but
we encountered plenty of other colorful characters.

There was Jean Paul in the kitchen with a bunch of other unwashed revolutionary types
who listened to him, enraptured, as he beat his fist on the counter and ranted about the
Algerian situation. There was Marie in all her massive grey haired glory, who cornered us
in the second floor sitting room, seizing my hand and imploring me to come to her studio
and sit for her as soon as possible, as she was working on a new painting that desperately
required the masculine energy of my sexual aura. I'd never been one to blush, but I did it
then, before I mumbled an excuse and yanked Bella away after me. There was Felix and
Laurent from Le Tabou who had set up in the library with a bloke I recognized from around
town on the upright bass and another bloke named David from the States on French horn.
They were playing some sort of free form bebop and if I hadn't been so desperate to be
alone with Bella, I might have sat in with them.

"Um…" Bella's hesitant voice startled me because she'd been so quiet as I showed her
around, "where is…um, your room?"

I looked to her quickly, surprised at the question. She took a big swig of her champagne to
cover up her blush, but I saw it anyway. "I, ah…I have the garret, on the top floor. Do
you…do you want to see it?"

I was fairly sure she would say no. She was not the kind of girl to follow me up to my room,
alone, so soon after we had met. But I felt like I should ask her anyway. Bella shocked me,
though, by actually considering it for a minute. Her eyes cut away and she chewed on her
bottom lip, clearly torn. Bloody hell, what if she said yes? My mind spun with the
possibilities: Bella, alone in my room, Bella sitting on my bed, Bella laying back under the
skylight….Christ, I needed to stop thinking like that. That was absolutely not going to
happen tonight, even if she did come upstairs.

Then she ducked her chin and shook her head a little. "It's probably not a good idea."

I exhaled the huge breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. "Yeah, probably not."

She looked up at me then, eyes bright. "Some other time, though?"

I smiled down at her, so wide I thought my face would crack. "You can count on it."

I put my hand on the small of her back and steered her out of the library and back into the
wide hall that ran the length of the house. We nearly collided with Emmett, leaning back
against the wall, arms crossed, smiling lazily at a young bloke I didn't know dressed all in
black. He has a slight build and pale, almost colorless hair. It made the thin moustache he
was sporting nothing more than a shadow on his lip. And he was wearing a beret. Honestly?
I didn't think anyone our age was still wearing those.

"Don't you see?" the man in black implored Emmett. "When Nietzsche says God is dead then
the next logical step is that nothing matters, nothing means anything, man! It's all illusion!
Society trying to bend us to their rules! No past, no future! Nothing and no one matters!"

Emmett smiled lazily and scoffed, "My friend, if you can honestly say that nothing and no
one matters, then I say you just haven't met the right girl yet. Because let me tell you, there
are plenty of women out there who can make you see God!"

The man in black huffed in exasperation and threw his hands in the air at Emmett's
apparent complete ignorance, but I just shook my head and chuckled. I was about to chime
in and defend Emmett's more Dionysian philosophy of life but Bella shocked me and spoke
first.

"Yes, Nietzsche said God is dead," she said, sounding surprisingly confident, "but he also
wrote about the Übermensch. He said we must give our existence value by living as if our
life itself was a work of art!"

Emmett and I turned in unison to stare at Bella, mouths open.

"What?" she asked, clearly puzzled by our faces. "He did."

I held my hands up in front of me in defense, "I believe you. You want another drink?"

She nodded before the man in black turned his attention to her with a condescending sneer
on his thin lips. His eyes raked over Bella, and I wanted to rip his head off for a moment,
although he quickly seemed to lose interest in her as a woman in favor of taking her on as a
debate rival.

"But he also praised the arrival of nihilism. He said it was mankind's greatest challenge!" he
sneered.

"A challenge that we were meant to rise above!" Bella countered. And so they went on. I
paused at the end of the hall and looked back at her, squared off against this irritating
pretentious little twit. Anyone would think she'd feel intimidated, a girl like her, from a
small town far away, thrown into a crazy situation like this. But no, not Bella. She had one
hand on her hip as she calmly gestured with her other to make her point as she slowly took
that wanker apart. Emmett remained leaning against the wall, watching their argument, a
huge grin on his face, clearly delighted with Bella. She constantly amazed me. I didn't think
I'd ever meet a woman who intrigued me more than she did for as long as I lived.

I passed back through the house with Bella's drink and caught sight of Alice sitting on the
edge of the dining room table, under the chandelier, commanding by a small enraptured
crowd as she related some story about Coco Chanel pitching a fit at a fashion show. I shook
my head and smiled. It figures that she'd feel right at home in this madhouse. I was still
chuckling over it when a voice I dreaded hearing broke through my thoughts.

"Eddie! Mon cher, Eddie!"

I turned and plastered on what I was sure was a thoroughly unconvincing polite smile.

"Victoire. Lovely to see you tonight. Now if you'll just excuse me, I have to…"

"I have been looking for you, Eddie! I came before, did Esme not tell you?"

"Esme? No…she, well…she must have forgotten," I bluffed pathetically. I hated being called
Eddie and it sounded particularly grating in Victoire's hard, pinched accent.

Victoire narrowed her eyes, giving her otherwise lovely face the look of a sharp little
rodent. "Oui. Forgot. Quelle farce!" she muttered.

"Look, Victoire, I have some friends here tonight and I really should be…."

"I thought we had fun, mon cher, but you never called," she cooed, sidling up to me. Before I
knew it, she had me wedged into a corner between the wall and a long wooden table. Her
auburn hair was twisted up on her head and the front of her red taffeta dress dipped low.
She reached out a hand and ran her long glossy red nails down my arm softly. She leaned in
close, her lips aiming for mine and I turned my head quickly so she only barely brushed my
cheek.

I sighed heavily. I really should have dealt with this weeks ago instead of just avoiding her.
She was so persistent, I never guessed that she'd still be…
"Excuse me." I had only enough time to register Bella's voice, to see her fingers tap Victoire
on the shoulder, to see Victoire swivel to look at her, before Bella's hand swung out and
made contact with Victoire's shocked face.

Victoire gasped and staggered back, her hand flying up to her cheek. I looked to Bella,
stunned. Her wide eyes shot from Victoire to me. She let out a horrified gasp at what she'd
done and clapped both hands over her mouth.

"Qui est cette salope?" Victoire snapped, glaring at me. I stiffened at her words.

"Don't call her that!" I snarled.

"Oh, God," Bella muttered through her fingers. "I'm so sorry. I don't know what I was…I
didn't…"

Then she turned on her heel and fled out into the hall.

"Bella!"

I started after her but Victoire's hand clamped down on my upper arm.

"Edward, who—"

"She's my girlfriend!" I snapped, before I shook off Victoire's hand and raced out the door
after her. There was no sign of her in the hall. Emmett was ambling down the hall towards
me and he pointed straight ahead towards the front of the house, with a big grin on his face.

"Good luck!" he shouted after me.

I rounded the corner and half-stumbled down the stairs, finally catching her in the entry
hall. She had her head down and her hand on the doorknob.

"Bella, wait!"

She stopped, kept her head down for a moment, and drew a deep breath before she turned
to face me although her eyes wouldn't meet mine.

"I'm so sorry, Edward," she said softly, "I don't know what came over me. I don't know why I
did that. I just saw her there with you and…"

"Thank you," I spat out, interrupting her. Her head shot up, her eyes confused.

"What?"

"Thank you. You saved me," I said, finally smiling at her. "That was Victoire. I went out with
her once and she…well, she doesn't seem to want to take no for an answer. That was
shaping up to be a really awkward conversation, but then you and your vicious right hook
swept in and saved me. I'm quite sure Victoire will never want anything to do with me
again. So, thank you."

Bella let out a nervous chuckle and twisted her hands together.

"You're really not angry?"

"No, I'm not angry. I'm delighted, impressed, a little afraid of you, you name it. I'm not even
a little angry."

She sighed and dropped her head back, "This has been a really crazy day, maybe I'd better
just go on home."

"Okay, let's go." It didn't escape my notice that she didn't even hesitate this time, she just
smiled and turned and took my offered hand.

We walked in companionable silence for a few blocks. The weather was finally turning and
the night was somewhat mild and clear, a hint of spring that was just around the corner. It
was late enough that the streets were nearly empty and the moon was almost full. It was a
glorious night, and Bella was here next to me, our joined hands swinging lightly between us,
a tiny smile playing across her lips.

"So…" I finally said, to break the silence, "that's my house. I hope it wasn't too
overwhelming for you."

"Oh, no. Not at all. Your aunt and uncle seem like lovely people."

"Yes, they are. I'm lucky to have them. But she's not actually my aunt."

Bella's brows drew together in confusion.

"But she's Carlisle's…"

"They're not married," I said with a smile. "Actually, I think Esme has a husband
somewhere."

"She's married to someone else?"

"Well, it's not like he's around at all. And it was years and years ago. Ancient history.
Honestly, I don't know the whole story. She doesn't talk about it. But she and Carlisle are
happy together, and isn't that all that really matters?"

Bella considered that for a moment then shrugged lightly.

"Everything here is just so…I mean, it's all just different than anything back home," Bella
said.

"Is that bad?"

She looked up to me, the moonlight glinting off her eyes for a moment and making her pale
skin glow, and she smiled, "No, not really. This place is crazy and it makes me do crazy
things. Like that back there!" she rolled her eyes and waved her hand to indicate Victoire,
"But I can't help but like it. I think I like the craziness."

I smiled down at her and squeezed her hand, "I like it, too."

She held my gaze for a minute before clearing her throat and looking forward.

"So," she said brightly, "I have a cat now."

Her non-sequitur threw me for a moment. "You have a cat? You've been in Paris for four
days."

"I know! See? Crazy. But he sort of found me and he doesn't have anywhere else to go. And
he's so sweet. I couldn't just ignore him."

"What's his name, this cat of yours?"

"He doesn't have one yet. Nothing seems quite right. What were your childhood pets'
names?"

"Me? I didn't have any childhood pets."

"None?" she looked up at me, puzzled, "Not even a goldfish?"

I shook my head, "No, not one. My mother didn't…well, no. No pets."

"Well, if you did have a pet, what would you have named it?"

"Hmmmm…Maybe Debussy."

"Debussy?"

"My favorite composer when I was young."

"You had a favorite composer when you were a kid?"

"Of course. It was Debussy. Clair de Lune was my favorite thing to play on the piano."

"Hmmm, Debussy," Bella murmured, trying it out. "I like it. Let's see if he does."
We were at Bella's building then, and I decided I'd walk her to the door of the apartment.
That scene with Victoire had made me bold. Bella taking that swing at Victoire told me that
she wanted me, too. What I wanted now was to get her alone and kiss her again, and this
time I wouldn't botch it up like last night.

I followed her inside the building when she opened the front door. She hesitated for just a
second, but then headed for the elevator and I followed. I pressed myself against the far
side of the tiny cab, not wanting her to feel like I was expecting anything or trying to press
an advantage. She shot me nervous sideways glances under her lashes but said nothing. At
her floor, I lightly placed my hand on the small of her back and ushered her out ahead of
me.

Alice's apartment was at the end of the hall. I silently trailed Bella up to the door as she
kept her head bowed and fidgeted with her keys. She paused in front of it, fumbling to get
the right one in the lock and I decided it was now or never.

"Bella?"

She turned and looked up at me expectantly. I stepped forward into her, placing my hands
against the door on either side of her head. She gasped and flattened herself back against
the door. But there was no outraged huff, no pushing me away, no indignant shriek. There
was only Bella, pressed against the door, chin down, huge brown eyes on me, pink lips
slightly parted. She was breathing hard, her chest rising and falling heavily, nearly brushing
my torso with every movement.

I moved one hand from the door to her shoulder, then I slid my fingers along her warm
neck, up under her hair. Unconsciously, her head tipped back slightly as I knotted my
fingers into her hair at the nape of her neck. Her eyelids fluttered half closed as I dipped my
face towards hers. I could feel the ghost of her breath across my lips. I leaned in slightly to
close the tiny gap just as the night exploded with an ear-splitting shriek.

We both gasped and jumped away from each other. The shriek came again, from behind
Bella, inside Alice's apartment, and this time it petered out into a low keening wail.

"What the bloody hell is that?" I muttered, my voice ragged.

Bella's face was horrified. "Debussy!"

"What?"

"My cat! It's Debussy!" She spun away from me and was desperately trying to jam her key
into the lock.

I reached out and ran my hand down her arm, really hoping that she wasn't going to run
away from what nearly happened. "Can he wait for just a moment? We were sort of in the
middle of something just now."

The shriek came again, accompanied by another wail.

"He's going to wake the neighbors! I can't get Alice in trouble! She doesn't even know about
him!" Suddenly she had the door open and she was inside and closing the door in my face as
she muttered, "Goodnight, Edward."

"Wait," I put my hand out to stop the door. "Can I come see you tomorrow?"

She nodded frantically, looking back over her shoulder into the apartment as another wail
rang out, this one impossibly louder.

"Yes, okay! Fine! I'll see you tomorrow!"

Then she slammed the door in my face. I groaned in frustration and raked my hands across
my face. Bloody cat. I think I hated him already.

"Qui est cette salope?" = "Who is this bitch?"

Chapter 9

Royce took me to a party last night. He bought me a new dress and took me to get my hair
done. It was so extravagant, I almost refused. I've never been comfortable accepting
expensive gifts, you know that, but he begged me and told me how beautiful I would look, and
in the end I agreed. It was worth it to see the smile on his face. The party was a business
function, so he was busy all night talking to people and "working the room" as he calls it. We
barely got ten minutes to ourselves, and I confess I was a little lonely. Lately we've been
talking about our future, and I mentioned that I hope he won't work so hard if we get married
and start a family. I don't think I'm cut out to be a socialite. I miss you. All my love.

}-----

The blood was pounding in my ears as I slammed the door on Edward's face and scrambled
toward my room. It was irrational for me to be angry at the cat for interrupting my moment
with him. I shouldn't have been thinking about kissing him again anyway. That first kiss
had been a mistake. It was a mistake to think about the way he made me feel when his
fingers grazed the back of my arm, or wrapped around my hand, or the way my skin tingled
at the slightest contact.

Debussy howled again and I jumped, startled. A series of crashing noises echoed from my
room. I wrenched the door open and he shot past me into the apartment.

"What the heck are you doing?" I huffed, watching as he bounded in a circle around the
living room before tearing off into Alice's bedroom. My eyes widened at the thought of cat
hair all over Alice's silks and taffeta.

"Debussy, stop!" I yelled, running after him. If anything, my chase only made him crazier.
He backed into a corner, arching his back and flattening back his ears. He looked absolutely
terrified. I felt a stab of regret. He was an outside cat, he had probably never been closed
inside before. I had scared him.

I squatted down and extended a hand toward him, making little clucking noises with my
tongue.

"There, there," I crooned. "It's okay. Come on, Debussy. I won't hurt you."

He relaxed a little at the name, and I took it as a good sign.

"That's it, just come on over here." I patted the ground in front of me and he slunk forward.
Just as I was about to grab him, he shot through my arms and under my skirt, racing back
down the hall toward the living room. I scrambled to my feet and chased after him.

"Darn it!" I hissed, almost tripping on my skirts. I heard a series of bangs from the living
room, and when I turned the corner I was almost afraid the room would be in ruins.
Instead, I saw Debussy, clawing fruitlessly at the glass door that led to the balcony. He
mewed pathetically and head butted the door again, rattling it on its hinges.

"Just hold on, I'll let you out." I don't know why I was still talking to him. At the very least, it
was calming me down a little bit. I finally reached the door and pulled it open. Debussy
leapt out immediately and scampered across the window boxes that dotted the wall of the
courtyard. Before I could see where he was headed, he had disappeared into the night.

Sighing heavily, I pulled the door shut to keep out the draft and looked around the room.
Debussy had knocked over the little coffee table next to the door and rumpled the rug, but
other than that the room looked intact. I straightened up and went back to my room,
fearing the worst.

Considering the amount of noise Debussy was making when I got home, my room was
relatively undamaged. My quilt was balled up in a nest near the foot of my bed, and the
floor lamp was lying on its side. Thankfully, there didn't look to be any broken glass.

Debussy. What an odd name for a cat. I shook my head and picked up the lamp, setting it
carefully upright. Edward was a mystery, that was for sure. I had been expecting something
a little more standard when I asked him about pet names. Tiger, maybe, or Felix. What kind
of person names a cat after a classical composer? A decidedly odd one, that's what kind.

The front door creaked open and I heard the clack of heels on the wood floors.

"Bella? Are you home?"

"In here, Alice," I called, tugging on my quilt to straighten it.

She peeked around the corner, twitching her nose a little. "I was hoping you'd still be out
with Edward."

"No, he walked me home and said goodnight." I felt my face flush a little at the thought of his
hands trapping me up against the door.

"He said goodnight, huh?" Alice teased, giggling a little and twitching her nose again. "Is that
what the kids are calling it nowadays? That man was looking at you like he hadn't eaten for
days and you were a steak dinner."

"Stop it," I blustered, still straightening the room surreptitiously. "He walked me home and
we said goodnight. Oh!" I gasped. "He asked to see me tomorrow." In my rush to rescue
Debussy I had simply told him yes and slammed the door in his face. He probably thought I
was insane.

"That's good, isn't it?" Alice shot me a curious glance as she unpinned her hat and walked
back into the hall. A few seconds later, I heard a loud "Achoo!"

"Bless you," I called. Another loud sneeze. "Bless you again!"

I started to undress and Alice came wandering back down the hall, wrapped in a silk robe.
"Thanks," she muttered, rubbing her nose. "I hope I'm not getting sick. I never sneeze. Well,
unless there's a cat around." She laughed lightly and swept into the kitchen, missing the
way my face twisted and fell. How was I going to convince her to keep a cat she was allergic
to? Maybe it was only a minor allergy. Of course, that was a moot point if Debussy never
came back.

"Bella, can I ask you a favor?"

I pushed my dress down over my hips and jumped into my pajamas before jogging out to
meet Alice in the kitchen. She was frowning at the empty cabinet.

"I guess I haven't been keeping up with the groceries," she said sheepishly. "I eat out a lot,
and I'm not much of a cook. Do you think you can go to the market at Place Saint Medard
tomorrow? It's not far away. We just need some fresh fruit and vegetables, and some bread,
and maybe some—"
"Of course I can go to the market," I cut her off. "It'll be nice to do something normal after
the last few weeks."

"Great! I'll give you directions in the morning, I'm beat. I can't believe I met Esme Benoit."
She clapped her hands and giggled, looking a little bit like a child. "Can you believe that
place? What a trip."

"I'm surprised you're home, actually," I admitted. "I figured you'd be out all night again."

"I have a photo shoot tomorrow," she sighed. "And I can't risk being late. I need to wake up
early, and when I stay out too late I sleep like the dead. Anyway, I'm sure we'll be back; now
that you're with Edward, we'll probably get invited to all of Esme's parties!"

"I'm not with Edward," I insisted weakly. "I'm only going to be in Paris for a short time. Once
I find Rose, we're going back home to Forks. He and I couldn't ever… well, we're friends."

Alice rolled her eyes and flicked the light switch, plunging us into darkness.

"Sure, kid. Whatever you say."

*****

True to her word, Alice was up early the next morning, brewing strong, black coffee and
singing cheery French songs in the kitchen. I was starting to recognize the songs in her
repertoire. I padded out of my room and poured a mug of coffee.

"Oh good, you're up," she said, grinning at me. "I was just thinking about the best way to get
to the market, and I think I've figured it out. We'll leave out the shortcuts for now, I'll send
you on the main roads until you're comfortable cutting through the alleys."

She had the map that Emmett bought me spread out on the table, and she pointed out the
roads I would be taking. It seemed straightforward enough.

"And of course, you'll need money. I left enough for a few days on the table by the door. It's
easier to go every day or so, then you don't have to worry about food spoiling or not buying
enough."

I frowned. I hadn't thought much about it, but Alice had been paying for everything I
needed since I arrived. "I don't know how I'm going to pay you back, Alice. I spent
everything I had on my way here. I don't even know how I'm going to get Rosalie home."

"Don't worry about it." She waved a hand airily and scooped up her clutch purse, clacking
her way toward the door. "I make enough to keep us afloat. And I've got plenty saved up.
You run a few errands and help keep things clean, and we'll call it square. Now, don't get in
too much trouble today. I'll be back this afternoon."
I spent the next hour studying the map. It was incredible how familiar everything looked
after only a couple of days and a few expeditions out on my own. I found the route that I
used to get the Square du Vert-Galant and the locations of the two bars we had gone to the
night before. I laughed to myself as I remembered the last couple of days. No one from back
in Forks would recognize me. What would they say when I got back?

I was about to get dressed when I heard the balcony door rattle. I couldn't help the wide
smile that overtook my face. I hurried over and let Debussy in, scratching behind his ears
and patting his head. He purred and weaved through my legs, rubbing his arched back
against my shins.

"Are you hungry?" I asked, already halfway to the icebox. I felt less guilty about pilfering
food for Debussy now that I would be taking care of the groceries. I could just get a little
something extra for him when I was out shopping. I pulled out a plate and set a few scraps
of meat on it and a little saucer of milk next to that. It seemed more official to see him
eating in the kitchen, out in the open. He really was mine. I felt a tiny pang of guilt
remember Alice's allergies, but I shook it off. I would keep everything clean. She wouldn't
be able to object. Besides, he was such a sweet cat.

It didn't take me long to get ready. Now that I had resigned myself to the wardrobe that
Alice was supplying me, I was starting to look forward to each new outfit. She really did
have wonderful taste, and even the somewhat conservative clothing she brought home for
me made me feel stylish and modern.

Leaving Debussy to enjoy the relative warmth of the apartment, I pulled on my coat and set
off into the city. It was midmorning, and the sun was shining brightly despite the sharp
breeze that whistled in my ears. Spring was coming. The trees that dotted the sidewalks
were covered in tiny buds. Instead of the miserable grey pallor the city had when I arrived,
everything seemed alive and green today.

The market was busy. It was set up in the middle of a normal street, wooden stalls crowded
on either side of the cobbled street. People weaved in and out, talking in loud, garbled
French and stopping to greet neighbors and friends. It reminded me a bit of the chaos at
Edward's house the night before.

I don't know what kind of place I expected Edward to live in. Maybe a messy bachelor pad,
or a tiny apartment like Alice's. I didn't know him well, but he seemed like a solitary
person, so to see him surrounded by loud and rowdy people who obviously knew him—
knew him and loved him—was a real shock.

I grinned down at a bushel of leafy greens as I remembered the look on his face when we
walked into the parlor where his friend had been … performing. He was so embarrassed. I
was beginning to look forward to the confused and flustered look on his face—the one he
got whenever he was talking to me. He wasn't anything like the man I thought I saw in the
park that night.
I passed the woman at the vegetable stall a few coins and moved on to the baguettes. If
Edward became disoriented and nervous around me, I become unusually bold around him.
He made me feel…possessive. When I saw him cornered by that woman, her lips rapidly
approaching his own, I lost control. My mind didn't even register my actions until my hand
was stinging faintly and Edward and his friend were gaping at me in shock. Luckily, Edward
didn't seem at all upset. He was grateful.

It was completely improper, especially since I didn't even know enough about him to know
the difference between a woman who was clearly a mother figure and a lover. I couldn't
believe I had actually been jealous of Esme at first. She was …well, the most I could say at
the moment was that Esme was enthusiastic. Her unreserved affection for everyone in her
home, and especially for Edward and his friends, was overwhelming.

I spent a great deal of time sorting through wedges of cheese at a tiny dairy stand near the
end of the row. The man there spoke a little English and offered me samples from the
different flavors. I was getting used to the unrestrained way that the French addressed each
other, sprinkling endearments throughout their conversations generously and
indiscriminately.

The basket Alice had given me was nearly full by the time I had made an entire circuit of the
market. I had fresh pasta and a handful of vegetables and fruits, along with a couple of
pieces of fish and package of ham. My last stop was a flower stall, where I picked up a bright
bouquet of local blooms. Yellow, orange, and red mixed together in a riot of color that I
knew Alice would love.

Since it was such a beautiful day, I took my time walking back to the apartment, taking a
meandering route that was much longer than the one I had taken to get to the market.
Nothing in my basket would spoil, and it wasn't heavy, so I basked in the sun and walked
slowly. I wandered through the residential neighborhoods for a while.

I passed a street musician, and my mind flashed back to Edward. I remembered the way he
had eyed one group of young musicians as he showed me through Esme's home the night
before. I almost suggested that he stay and join them, since he clearly wanted to, but I was
too selfish. I wanted to hold on to the way he made me feel, just for a little while longer. I
was so addled by the feeling that I asked about his room, for goodness sake. And then when
he offered to take me there, I actually considered it. It was a complete contrast to the many
times Jacob tried to cajole me into sneaking into his room with him. I refused every single
time. One more out of character thing to add to my list.

I was somewhere near Alice's apartment when I first saw them. I was crossing the street
and checking for any cars when two men caught my eye. They wore dark wool coats and
fedoras, brims pulled low over their eyes. When they saw me looking at them, they picked
up their pace, following me across the road. I sped up and changed direction.

I'm not sure why they made me uncomfortable. They weren't following me too closely, and I
had no reason to be afraid, but I couldn't help but think of James' ugly grimace and the way
he said my name. I shivered and ducked down a narrow street I was sure Alice had used on
our trip to the Vogue offices a few days ago.

I was walking briskly now, almost skipping down the alley, cursing the heels that Alice had
snuck into my room the night before. She had stolen my comfortable flats, and while I had
no problem walking in heels, I couldn't run in them.

I turned up another street and kept heading in the general direction of Alice's building. I
was a little turned around, but I was fairly certain that I was only a few streets away. When I
glanced over my shoulder again, I saw that I was alone again. The alley I was walking down
was deserted, but I was just grateful to see I had left the men behind.

I slowed down and caught my breath. When I got to the next street I glanced around,
looking for some sort of a clue about where exactly I was. I thought I saw a window box that
I recognized. Instead of the usual cluster of neat flowers, this box was filled with glass
baubles that caught the sunlight and reflected it back onto the street in bright colors. I
recognized it from my walks to the park. I was close. I could either take one more alley to
cut up to Rue Jacob, or I could take the long way around and loop around to Saint Germain,
which would take an extra five to ten minutes. I just wanted to be back at the apartment,
and so I hurried forward into the alley which would take me there.

Exactly halfway between the street I had come from and Rue Jacob, I heard footsteps behind
me. I sped up, but tripped over a loose cobblestone. My flowers went flying, but I managed
to catch my basket before all my purchases when flying all over the alley floor.

I was on my knees in the half light, and I heard the footsteps steadily approaching me.
When I opened my eyes and peered behind me, I saw a man in a dark coat and a fedora
standing with his back to me, blocking the way I came.

"Stand up," a rough masculine voice said. I struggled to my feet and felt hands on my
shoulders, yanking me to my feet and pushing me flat against the wall. My shopping basket
lay abandoned where I fell.

"A pretty girl like you shouldn't go walking through alleys alone," the man sneered. I looked
up at him and my heart stuttered. It was the man who had threatened Alice at Club St.
Germain. We stood chest to chest, and his hands still gripped my shoulders.

"Get your hands off me," I said firmly, sounding more confident than I felt. "Leave now and I
won't report this to the police."

The man gave me an amused smile. "What exactly are you going to tell them?" he sneered,
his hands trailing down my arms. He leaned his head in close to my neck and inhaled
deeply. I could feel his hot breath on my skin. It smelled faintly like garlic.

"I'm here to deliver a message," he growled, squeezing my hip and chuckling evilly.
"Although there are a few more things I'd rather do." One meaty hand ghosted over my
stomach. My heart hammered a staccato beat and I tried to focus on keeping my breathing
steady. This was what my father had always warned me about, only it was happening in
broad daylight. I squeezed my eyes shut as tight as I could, willing away the tears I could
feel burning there.

"Stop asking questions about Royce," he whispered harshly in my ear. "And stay out of
James LaFave's way. There are some questions better left unanswered, especially for
wholesome, good little girls." His lips brushed my ear, and I couldn't contain the whimper
that escaped my lips.

"Might as well mix a little business with pleasure," he said, before forcing his lips against
my own. I struggled against his grip, but only for a moment. The next moment he was flying
backwards, grunting in surprise.

My eyes flew open and I gasped. Edward had the man by the throat against the other side of
the alley. I only got a glimpse of his face, but he looked enraged.

"Bella, stay back." His terse command propelled me backwards, and I tripped a little again,
this time over something more substantial. I looked down and saw the man who had been
guarding the entrance to the alley. A small trickle of blood dripped from his nose, but he
looked unconscious. A bouquet of crushed yellow flowers lay next to him. A scuffling sound
made me tear my eyes away.

Edward was locked in some kind of a wrestling grapple with the man who had been
threatening me. He took a punch straight to his jaw and wheeled back.

"Not… this… time," he grunted, twisting his arms and pushing the man to the ground.
Edward had never struck me as a particularly muscular man, but he had his opponent
pinned in one graceful move. He pulled back a fist and struck him across the face, grunting
incomprehensibly.

I crept forward, forgetting the danger we were both still in. Edward's teeth were bared, and
his dark eyebrows were knit together in ferocious concentration.

"Not while I'm here," he panted, fists connecting with the stranger's nose, then cheek, then
eye. "I'll kill you, you son of a bitch."

"Edward," I whispered harshly, trying to break through his fury. He was totally focused on
the man beneath him, now unconscious. Edward's fists moved mechanically, alternating
punches on the man's face and body. This was not the blustering, bohemian artist who had
walked me home and held my hand. He was possessed.

"Kate," he mumbled. "Katie's safe."

"Who's Kate? Edward, come on, snap out of it."

I walked forward and pulled on his shoulder. He tried to shrug me off, so when he pulled his
fist back again I grabbed his wrist. His knuckles were bleeding and his eyes were blank and
staring.

"NO," he growled, yanking away. "No, I won't let you."

"Okay, that's it," I snapped, wrenching him back with all my strength. We fell back, my arms
locked around his neck. He struggled limply in my arms. "Come on, Edward. Enough now,
you need to get with it."

"Had to keep her safe," he said vaguely, sitting up and flexing his fingers.

"I'm safe, Edward," I said firmly. "Now we need to get inside before someone finds us."

"Bella?" He looked up at me, eyes clearing slightly. "Are you okay?"

"I'm safe, Edward," I assured him. "But we have to get out of here." I picked up my basket
and gathered the two destroyed bunches of flowers. Mine had been trampled during the
struggle, but the yellow flowers by the first unconscious man looked only slightly worse for
wear.

"I brought you flowers," Edward said, reaching out for my hand. I led him out of the alley
and down the block. We were less than 100 feet from Alice's front door.

"They're beautiful," I answered softly, glancing down at the flowers in my hand again.

Once we were in the elevator, I took a good look at Edward. One eye was already swelling
slightly, and there was blood smeared on the front of his rumpled white shirt. The knuckles
of both his hands were bleeding, and when he raised a hand to push his slightly matted hair
out of his eyes, he left a trail of blood on his cheek.

He followed me to my door meekly, his eyes retaining that slightly lost look they had taken
on in the alley.

"Come inside. I'll clean you up." I pulled him into the apartment and pushed him onto the
armchair, hurrying toward the bathroom. I hoped to God Alice had a first aid kit
somewhere. Debussy was sitting in the tub, cleaning his face with dainty swipes of his paw.
Seeing me, he jumped up and rubbed against me, purring.

"Hi honey," I said distractedly, opening the medicine cabinet and digging through the
various perfumes and makeup containers until I found a small tin with bandages and
disinfectant. I grabbed a washcloth, ran it under warm water, and ran back to the living
room where Edward waited. Debussy trotted after me, stopping in the kitchen and
watching me approach Edward warily.
I knelt in front of Edward and swiped the cloth across his face, lingering on the cut near his
eyebrow and his slightly swollen lips.

"I told you, I'm not a damsel in distress," I joked shakily. "You didn't have to charge in there.
What if you had gotten really hurt?" I took his right hand in my own and dabbed his cuts
with disinfectant. He winced, but otherwise didn't react.

"It would have been worth it," he said lowly. His voice was gruff, and his fingers flexed a
little around my own. I looked up and met his gaze, and my breath caught. He was staring at
me with a stern frown on his face, eyebrows furrowed, jaw tensed. I straightened up a little,
bringing our faces closer together.

"What if that man had been armed?" I breathed, not breaking eye contact. He had charged
into the alley to save me, not even thinking about the danger he was putting himself in.

"It would have been worth it," he said again. I watched his Adam's apple bob and his lips
part slightly. It was mesmerizing, although I wasn't sure why.

"It was a stupid thing to do. You can't just go charging into a dangerous situation without
thinking. You'll end up doing something you regret." I inched closer to him under the
pretext of inspecting his black eye. Pain flashed in his green eyes, and he nodded.

"I already have."

There was something about the sight of him, wounded and bleeding, in pain and totally
vulnerable all because of me—because of what he had done for me—that broke my self-
restraint. Before I could think about it, before I could tell myself that it was stupid and
pointless and a bad idea, I leaned forward and kissed him.

For a shining moment, it was exactly how I remembered it. His lips were soft and yielding,
and I closed my eyes and lost myself in the feel of him. Then he was pulling away, his eyes
wide and his mouth working soundlessly. I was frozen to my spot, breathing heavily and
trying to understand the sudden absence of his lips. Finally, he spoke.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?"

Chapter 10

I woke up exhausted and aroused, dreaming about Bella, naturally. Well, it was definitely
an improvement over the dreams of a bombed out London.

The sun that managed to make its way through the grime on the skylight was hazy, but it
made me squint nonetheless. I still felt strung out and edgy from last night, from the
moment when my lips were almost on hers before that bloody cat started shrieking to wake
the dead. I absently retrieved my cigarettes from the side of the bed and lit one as I
replayed it in my head. But this time the cat stayed quiet, I kept leaning forward, we kissed
with Bella pinned to the door. Well, while it was an enchanting fantasy, it wasn't helping me
become less aroused, so I crawled out of bed and headed to the bathroom to wash up. The
pipes that led to the garret were old and as a result the water was always icy, but this
morning I was actually grateful for that.

I dressed and headed down the curving stairs to the kitchen, hoping I could get to the stove
before Carlisle got there to desecrate the coffee. I was out of luck. He was already there,
standing at the stove, humming happily, making a pot of his horrible coffee. Esme was there
in her bright silk robe, leaning against the counter next to him and smoking. Emmett was
there as well, slouched in a chair at the table, still in his rumpled clothes from last night,
chatting happily with Esme and Carlisle.

"Well, good morning, sunshine!" Emmett boomed when he saw me.

"Late night, Em?" I smiled.

"Esme was gracious enough to let me crash in one of the spare bedrooms to save me a long
drunk walk home," he explained, stretching his arms over his head lazily.

"How was your evening, Edward?" Carlisle asked.

I snorted. "Which part? The part where we got tossed out of St. Germaine? Or the part
where Julian translated crow for Bella? Or the part where Victoire cornered me and tried to
accost me? Or maybe the part where Bella slapped her?"

"She did not!" Emmett barked in disbelief.

"Oh, yes she did!"

"That little tiger! Damn, Edward, I love that girl! You should have seen her take that
pretentious little prick to pieces last night. Smart as a whip and ruthless, but batting those
big brown eyes at him the whole time. Bastard didn't know what hit him. It was a sight to
behold," Emmett laughed, shaking his head.

"Edward, I do like that girl," Esme interjected.

"Yes, she seems absolutely lovely," Carlisle agreed.

I nodded morosely. "She is lovely."

"What is it, darling?" Esme asked, her brow furrowed. "Did you quarrel?"
"No, no. Nothing like that. I just…well, I sort of laid myself on the line last night. Told her
exactly how I felt about her. And she didn't say anything. Not a word. I think I might have
scared her off."

Emmett leaned forward on his elbows, "Did you tell her about the painting and watching
her in the park and all that?"

I nodded glumly.

"Well, no wonder, Edward," Emmett scoffed, rolling his eyes. "You've known the girl, for
what, two days? And then you lay all that on her? She probably thinks you're crazy!"

I dropped my head into my hands and groaned. "Thanks, Em. Just what I need to hear."

"Darling," Esme crooned, crossing the room and dropping into the chair next to me, rubbing
my shoulder. "You must not get discouraged. This girl, this Bella, she is different. You will
have to work hard to win her over."

I exhaled loudly and Esme took that as a reply.

"You'd rather she were easy?" she said, her voice sharper. "Victoire was easy and look what
that got you. Edward, mon cher, for you, they are all easy. Mon dieu, with that face! It has
always been easy for you. I think this Bella is just what you need. She will make you work,
but is she not worth it?"

"I'll answer that for you," Emmett interjected. "Yes, she is. Don't screw this up, buddy!"

I dropped my hands away from my head and glared at him, "Not helping, Em. I already
declared myself and she didn't so much as blink. Now what do I do?"

"You must woo her, my son," Esme murmured. "You have told her how you feel, non? Now
you must show her."

"Woo her?" I asked, scowling.

"Yeah, pretty boy, "Emmett said. "I know ordinarily all you have to do is smile and crook
your little finger for these girls, but the rest of us regular Joes have to work at it a little. You
know, bring her some flowers, take her to dinner. It's called romance."

"Oui, Emmett is right," Esme said. "You have kissed her already, n'est-ce pas?"

"Esme! That's none of your business!" I snapped.

Emmett and Esme looked at each other and rolled their eyes.

"He has," Emmett drawled. "I'd wager the first night that he met her."
My guilty face must have given me away because Esme huffed and crossed her arms over
her chest. "Edward," she said disapprovingly, "you can't just pounce on a girl like Bella."

"It wasn't….I didn't…it was an accident! I didn't mean to kiss her!"

Emmett threw his head back and laughed. "You two have this whole thing backwards. You
need to take a step back and start over. Do it properly. Are you seeing her today?"

I nodded.

"So bring her some flowers, take her out, show her a good time. Think you can manage that,
Romeo?"

I sneered at him, but he was right. I'd messed this thing up from the very start with Bella.
Today I would do it right, romance her, like Esme said, win her over.

"Well, I for one, think Emmett's absolutely right," Carlisle finally spoke, bringing me a cup
of coffee and setting it down in front of me. I took a sip and winced. "She's only been in Paris
a few days, she's thousands of miles from home, all alone, her dear friend is missing, and
now you've charged into her life in a most unconventional manner." He clapped me on the
shoulder jovially, "Just help her, be there for her. And Esme's right, a little romance goes a
long way."

"Alright, if you're all finished discussing my love life, I think I'm done here," I said.

Emmett beamed at me, "Go get her, tiger!"

I smirked at him and pushed off from the table. Romance, huh? Right, then. I had plans to
make.

***

I took another look in the streaked little mirror over the sink. I really should have gotten
that haircut before now. I looked half-wild, I realized, trying to flatten my hair a bit with my
hand. It didn't really work, though and I was afraid I was only making it worse, so I left off
my hair. At least the rest of me was presentable. My decent black pants, clean white shirt, I
even stole a tie from Carlisle.

I slipped down the stairs from the garret as quietly as possible. The kitchen pep talk this
morning was bad enough, even though they were right. But the last thing I needed now was
for Esme to catch me on the way out and start clucking over me like a mother hen. But luck
was on my side, the house was quiet and I managed to get out unseen.

I stopped at a flower seller on Rue St. Germain, but quickly got overwhelmed by the choices.
Roses? Tulips? Those little purple ones? I had never brought a woman flowers before. Was
there a standard? Were there rules? I had no idea. Finally I closed my eyes and exhaled and
decided to just pick the ones that reminded me of Bella. I settled on some yellow ones. They
seemed simple and delicate, but also no-nonsense, if flowers can be such a thing. Just like
Bella.

Feeling a little self-conscious and obvious, freshly pressed and flowers in hand, I made my
way along Boulevard St Germain and decided to cut along Rue des Cardinals to get over to
Rue Jacob. It was less of a street really, and more of an alley, narrow and curving, heavily
shadowed by the buildings rearing up on both sides. As I came around the curve to Rue de
Furstenberg, I nearly collided with a thick, dark-haired man standing at the corner,
blocking the way.

"Excusez-moi ," I murmured, making to step around him. He thrust one arm out to his side
to block me.

"Arrêtez!" he snarled.

My eyes shot up to his face and I felt a flicker of recognition. I tried to place where I'd seen
him as I puzzled out why he was blocking my way. His features fell into place in my head at
the same moment that I heard a startled female voice around the corner ahead of me…
Bella's voice. And this guy was in St. Germaine with James last night.

My hand shot out and seized his wrist before I even had time to think about what to do. He
hadn't expected me to do it, his startled face told me that much. I took advantage of his
surprise and moved fast, twisting his wrist, wrenching his arm behind his back and turning
his body half away from me in the process. I heard Bella cry out again and my adrenaline
spiked. I rushed forward with everything I had in me, towards the wall on my left,
propelling the man in front of me. His forehead hit the wall and made a muffled thud. I saw
blood trickle down the side of his nose and he became dead weight, slumping to the ground
in front of me. I dropped him into a motionless pile and sprinted around the corner.

The other one, the one who'd been with James last night, the one who'd put his hands on
Alice, had Bella pinned to the wall. One meaty hand gripped her hip, the other had her by
the back of the neck. As I rushed at them, he leaned in and crushed his lips on hers. Her face
was twisted in disgust and she whimpered. That tiny sound from her broke me. A veil
descended on me. I wasn't thinking, I wasn't feeling, I only knew I had to destroy that
animal that dared to touch her.

My hands wrapped around him, wrenched him with all my strength and we were staggering
across the alley. Away…away from her. He must not get to her. She must be safe.

He rounded on me and I charged. I felt myself collide with him, I felt his fist strike my
temple, I felt the pain radiate through both hands as I struck out and made contact with him
over and over. More pain through my jaw as my clenched teeth rattled, but I only rushed
back at him, swinging hard. I didn't even know what I was hitting, I just attacked, reveling
in the sounds of my fists impacting on his flesh, at the sight of the blood, of the damage I was
doing. Safe, she must be safe. I couldn't protect Kate, that wouldn't happen again. I would
never let that happen again.

I heard Bella's voice, far away and faint, calling my name, but I kept on, crushing him,
destroying him. She will be safe.

There was a tugging and I staggered back, aware only dimly of Bella hanging around my
neck, of Bella pulling me after her, out of the alley, leaving two broken bodies on the
ground. The muffled silence of her apartment building seemed to roar in my ears as I
stumbled after her, letting her pull me into her apartment and push me into a chair. I
winced at the sting in my knuckles as she cleaned me up and I began to focus again.

I looked down at my ragged hands, the blood under my fingernails, the scrapes along my
knuckles. I felt my face throbbing in several places, and my ribs on my right side. I could see
it in my mind again now, that man from St. Germain on the ground in the alley as I pounded
away at his still form, as I obliterated his face. I felt Bella flitting around me, dabbing at my
wounds, examining my face, speaking softly to me. She was there. She'd seen me do that.
She'd seen me turn into that animal, incapable of rational thought. Shame flooded through
me. I could hardly bear to have her look at me, to touch me and care for me like this.

She was talking to me, I was responding, but I couldn't really follow the conversation. Any
second now she'd take a good look at me, think back on what she'd seen me do, and back
away in horror. She was chastising me gently, telling me I should have been more careful,
that I might have done something I'd regret. I nearly laughed out loud.

"I already have," I muttered.

She leaned into me, examining my face. I dropped my eyes to my hands, unable to even look
at her soft loveliness.

Then she kissed me. First I felt the indescribable warmth of her lips on mine, and then I felt
the shock, the horror. How could she kiss me when she saw me like that? How could she
bring herself to even touch me, filthy and bloody, nothing better than an animal?

I thrust her away from me.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?"

She froze, her dark eyes wide. I was still gripping her upper arms, holding her away from
me, my dirty, bloody hands digging into the silky white fabric of her blouse. I released her
instantly and she stumbled back a few steps, a slight blush suffusing her cheeks.

"I…I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me," she muttered, spinning to face away from
me. She let out a short, strangled humorless laugh. "I seem to be saying that a lot these days,
huh?"
Oh, hell, she was embarrassed. I'd humiliated her. That was not my intention at all. As bad
as I felt, knowing how I made her feel made it infinitely worse.

"Bella, no…" I reached out a hand to her tentatively, but she ignored it.

"It's okay," she said, holding up a hand, "I just got a little carried away. That was
overwhelming, I wasn't feeling myself."

"Bella, listen to me. Please?"

She half turned to look at me, her face apprehensive.

"It's not that I don't want you. I just…after that…after what I just did, how could you
possibly want me?"

She paused, brow furrowed.

"Edward, you saved my life."

"I nearly killed those men. With my bare hands. If you hadn't stopped me, I would have."

"And they might have killed me."

Her words made me feel sick. Images of Kate flooded my mind without warning. I closed my
eyes and took a deep breath to steady myself.

"Who's Kate?"

My eyes shot open. How could she possibly know what I was thinking?

"You were saying her name out there. Who is she?"

I drew a deep breath, trying to anchor myself in the present, keeping my eyes on Bella's
face. "She was just someone I knew in London, when I was younger."

"Is she still there in London?"

"Kate's dead." I hadn't meant to say it so bluntly and Bella flinched a little at the harsh
pronouncement.

"Oh…I'm sorry."

I shrugged, "It was a long time ago."

She finally looked up and met my eyes, the corner of her mouth twitching up just a little.
"I'm still sorry. Thank you for that…down there."
I snorted and rolled my eyes in disgust.

"Bella, I'm so sorry that you saw me like that…"

"Edward, stop. It's really okay."

I took another deep breath and dragged my hands through my hair in frustration, suddenly
aware of my ruined clothes, the blood, the injuries. I laughed then, short and sharp. "This
was not at all how I planned tonight to go."

"What did you plan?" Her voice was softer now, a little playful, the worst of the stress had
passed.

I shook my head, "It doesn't matter. We just keep getting this messed up."

Bella shook her head, puzzled. "Pardon?"

So much for the romance, flowers and dinner and moonlit walks. All that stuff just didn't
seem to be in the cards for Bella and me. So I would just do this my way. I took two large
strides across her living room until I was standing in front of her. She looked up at me, eyes
wide.

"Bella, I want to kiss you. For real. No mistakes, no bad timing."

She said nothing, but she gave me a tiny nod, her dark eyes never leaving mine.

I reached out and gripped her upper arms again, feeling her silky blouse under my finger
tips, and took another step into her. Her lips fell open slightly as she gazed up at me. I
slowly lowered my head, our eyes locked. I moved one hand up to cup her cheek, closed my
eyes and pressed my lips to hers. It was warm and soft, everything I remembered and more
because this time she was willing. I pressed gently, going slow, caressing her cheek with my
thumb. She pressed back. It felt like time stood still for the long, perfect moment as our lips
were joined.

I pulled away slightly, just enough to look at her. Her eyes were half closed, her plump pink
lips slightly sheened. She looked back at me and then, in unison, we both moved forward
again. This time there was heat. Heat where our lips met, heat as my hand slid back to grip
her neck, heat as my arm slipped around her waist and pulled her against me, heat as she
reached up and ran her fingers through my hair, heat as my tongue met hers.

It was deepening, I was tightening my grip on her waist, when we heard the key in the lock.
Bella gasped and pulled back. I loosened my hold, but I didn't let her go completely, as we
both turned to the door. Alice burst in, followed by a much more sedate Jasper.

Alice froze just inside the door, taking in the two of us, still in each other's arms. God only
knows what we looked like.

"What the hell have you two been doing to each other?" she exclaimed, one hand on her hip.

"Alice," Bella muttered, reaching a hand up to smooth her hair. "What on earth are you
talking about?"

She took another step back from me and I let her go.

"You! And him! Look at the two of you! What happened?"

"Um, Bella," I said softly, "you have some….um, blood. Right there."

I reached out and wiped the smudge of blood off her cheek. "And your blouse…"

Bella finally glanced down at herself. The buttons of her blouse must have ripped free in the
struggle downstairs. It was hanging open nearly to her waist, exposing a silky camisole
underneath. She gasped and yanked the two edges together and I wished I'd noticed earlier
that she was half-undressed through all of that.

"Edward, what the hell happened to you?" Jasper growled, squinting closely at me.

"Does this have anything to do with the gendarmes downstairs?" Alice asked.

"What?" I snapped.

"The gendarmes," Alice said, waving a hand at the door. "Apparently somebody beat the
hell out of a couple of guys in Rue de Furstenberg…oh, my God…" Her eyes shot wide. "Was
that you?"

"You beat up those guys, Edward?" Jasper asked.

"They had Bella," I growled, reaching out instinctively for her hand, "I came around the
corner and one of them had her…" I closed my eyes and shook my head.

"Honey, are you okay?" Alice was instantly at Bella's side, cupping her face in her hands.

"Yes, I'm fine, they didn't hurt me," she said, "But, Alice, they were the guys from St.
Germain. The one who grabbed me, he was the one that put his hands on you."

"What?" Jasper's low snarl filled the room.

"He told me to stop asking questions about Royce and to leave James alone."

"Son of a bitch!" Jasper shouted, his face enraged. I knew exactly how he felt.
"You didn't tell me he said that," I said to Bella, struggling to control the menace in my
voice.

She looked away nervously, "Well, there wasn't exactly time, and then we got sort
of…distracted."

"This is serious," I snapped, "Maybe we should talk to the gendarmes."

Jasper snorted dismissively. "What the hell do you think they'll do to help? And besides,
didn't you just beat those two guys to a pulp downstairs? Maybe you should lay low."

"Jazz is right," Alice said, "They wouldn't even listen to me when I went to ask for help
about Rose. They're useless."

"And besides, I don't want to get Royce in trouble," Bella chimed in. Alice snorted, but she
pressed on. "If he doesn't know what sort of person James is, and then the police start
poking around, it might cause trouble for him."

I started to object, but Bella cut me off, "James thinks he proved his point. He wanted to
scare me, that's all. Until we find Royce and Rose, no police."

"Then you can't be alone," I said. "Neither of you can be."

"I agree," Jasper said, "You don't make a move alone, you hear, Alice?"

She shot him a little smile over her shoulder, but she nodded.

"I have to go change," Bella muttered, still holding her blouse closed. She pulled away from
me and headed to her bedroom. As she neared her door, a dark streak shot out of the
kitchen towards her.

Bella gasped his name, "Debussy!" at the exact same moment that Alice shrieked, "Is that a
cat??"

Bella leaned down and scooped up the cat, who wriggled and fought to free himself, as Alice
backed up against Jasper like the cat was possessed.

"Where the hell did that cat come from?" she demanded.

"Um, he was begging at the balcony door. I just couldn't say no. He was starving!" Bella
stammered, her cheeks flushing slightly. The cat was still trying to squirm out of her grip. I
felt bad for her, she was obviously attached to that ragged-looking creature and Alice was
clearly going to have no part of it.

"Well, he can't stay here!" Alice barked. "I'm allergic. No wonder I've been sneezing like
crazy!"
"Alice, he doesn't have anywhere else to go!"

"No way, kiddo! He doesn't stay here. Geez, Bella, are you sure that thing is even a cat? It
looks horrible!"

"He's just a little beat up," she said defensively, trying to soothe the animal in her arms.
Alice had a point. I'd never seen such an ugly cat in my life. It looked like parts of it were
missing.

"What am I going to do with him?" Bella asked.

"I'll take him." The words were out of my mouth before I even knew what I said and I was
sure I would live to regret them. But she seemed so distraught about the stupid cat, and I
was becoming such a sucker for anything that made Bella happy.

Bella rounded on me, her face alight with happiness and I immediately decided that
anything was worth it to get her to look at me like that. Besides, it's just a cat. Plenty of
people had cats. How bad could it be?

"Really?" she breathed.

"Sure," I shrugged. "But you'll have to come over to my place and help get him settled in. I
don't know anything about cats." I was beginning to see the genius of this plan.

Jasper snorted and rolled his eyes but I ignored him.

"Well, you'd better get on your way then, because that thing is going to make my head
explode if he stays in here," Alice said, edging past us, trying to stay as far away from Bella
and the cat as the tiny apartment allowed.

"Oh, sure," Bella said, jumping into action. "Edward, grab that basket over there. We can put
him in there."

I retrieved the woven basket she motioned to and brought it to her. It had a hinged lid and I
suppose she imagined the cat sitting cozily inside as we transported him across Paris, but
the cat had other ideas. It took a good ten minutes of coaxing and cajoling and baiting with
pieces of ham before she was finally able to trick the cat into the basket and slam the lid on
its head. Almost immediately it began to wail, that same horrific sound it made last night,
when it interrupted our goodnight kiss. Bella excused herself just for a moment to change
her clothes and grab her coat.

"Is it dying?" Jasper asked, peering curiously at the basket. The basket jerked across the
table in response and Jasper jumped back.

"Of course not," Bella snapped as she came back in the room, straightening her skirt. "He's
just scared. Come on, Edward. The faster we get him there, the better."

I tried to talk to Jasper for a minute about the situation, the possibility that dangerous drug-
dealing thugs were targeting our girls, but the wailing cat made conversation impossible, so
I let Bella drag me out of the apartment.

When I imagined this evening earlier and compared it to where we were now, I nearly
laughed out loud. On my way over to Bella's, flowers in hand, I'd imagined dinner in a café,
a moonlit, romantic walk home along the Seine, a lingering kiss goodnight at her door.
Instead the two of us were racing through the streets, rumpled, beaten and bloody, a
screaming cat in a basket swinging between us as horrified pedestrians stopped to gawk.
The gods must hate me.

Thankfully it wasn't far from Alice's apartment to Esme's house, and I was doubly grateful
that the house was uncharacteristically quiet. I remembered Carlisle mentioning tickets to
the theatre, so they must have been out. We slipped inside and I took Bella by the hand,
leading her upstairs, through the dark house towards the back stairs to the garret and up to
my room. She set the basket down on the floor as soon as she was inside and unhooked the
latch. The cat exploded out of the basket and was across the room like a shot, disappearing
behind some furniture, but at least he'd stopped that infernal shrieking. We both exhaled in
relief.

"Um…I wanted to take you out to dinner tonight, but things went a little off track. Let me
see if there's something to eat downstairs in the kitchen, at least. Will you be okay for a few
minutes?"

"Of course," Bella said, "I'm just going to try and coax him out. Poor thing. He's so scared."

I rolled my eyes a little at that, because that cat did not look scared. Possessed by the devil,
perhaps, but not scared. But I nodded in agreement and went to see what I could find to eat.
There wasn't a lot, but I found a decent piece of cheese and a hunk of a sausage, and a
baguette left over from Carlisle's shopping this morning. With a little more digging, I found
a basket of strawberries that had somehow lasted a whole day uneaten in this house. On
impulse, I snuck into Esme's stash and took a bottle of her champagne. Under the
circumstances, I figured she'd approve.

When I got back up to the garret, Bella was curled up in the middle of the floor petting the
cat, which was winding around her, purring and bumping its head against her hand
affectionately. Okay, he didn't seem so bad now. Ugly as sin, but friendly enough. I crossed
the room to them and was about to sit down and join them when the cat whirled on me with
a hiss and shot out one paw, swiping me across the ankle.

"Bloody hell!" I shouted, feeling the sting of its claws across my skin. The cat bolted back
across the room. I changed my mind. I hated that cat.

"Sorry!" Bella cried, jumping up to help me with the food I'd brought. "Debussy just needs
to get used to you and he'll love you!"

Debussy. It seemed a positive sacrilege that the great composer was sharing his name with
that horrible creature. I shot Bella a disbelieving look as she lowered herself back to the
floor. She patted the ground next to her.

"Sit. If we're on the floor he might come back out."

Bella set about arranging the little haul of food I'd brought in front of her. She plucked a
strawberry out of the basket and took a delicate bite out of it. I lost my train of thought for a
moment, watching her lips curl around that strawberry, fixated on the juice staining her
bottom lip. I shook my head to clear it and sat down next to her. I handed her one of the
glasses I'd brought, figuring she wouldn't want to drink champagne out of my grimy,
chipped mismatched highball glasses.

"Champagne again?" she asked, amused, while I struggled to pop the cork. Carlisle always
made this look so easy.

"I figured we deserved it after today," I said, as I finally got it to go with a loud pop. I heard
the cat hiss across the room.

"Oh, I completely forgot!" Bella said, starting to jump up, "we need to get some ice on your
face!"

I snagged her wrist and pulled her back down beside me.

"Forget it. Come eat."

"But your eye…"

"It will be fine for a little while longer. This is what I want, what I've wanted all day, a little
time alone with you. So this isn't quite what I pictured," I smiled, waving a hand at my
shabby attic room, "At this point, I'll take it."

Bella relented and settled down again next to me, sipping her champagne. She'd changed
into a little black sweater and a full skirt with white flowers on it. Coupled with her dark
hair and eyes in the shadowy room, she looked dramatic and striking. She was smiling at
me over the rim of her glass. I swallowed hard.

"This isn't so bad," she murmured.

I reached a tentative hand out to stroke her cheek. Things felt different between us after
the kiss we'd shared, but I didn't want to make the mistake of assuming too much. She
sighed and leaned her face against my hand a little. I smiled in return. Things were
different.
"Right now, this is bloody brilliant," I said softly. I slid my hand around behind her neck and
pulled her closer to me. This time there was no surprise or shock on her face. She simply
smiled as my lips came down on hers.
***

Chapter 11

I often compare my life in Paris to my life in Forks. In some ways, I feel like I'm starting
something here that's completely beyond anything I had back home. Royce's house is
extravagant, although I'm used to it now. Aunt Helen would never have let us use his every
day china except for the most important guests! Fancy dresses, jewelry and champagne are
part of the everyday scenery. There's always another event, another party; it's exciting. Other
times, though, I miss the simplicity of life in Washington. It's mostly little things: hanging the
sheets out to dry on a rare sunny afternoon, going down to the ice cream parlor for a sundae
after dinner, or sitting out at First Beach with you watching the sunset. Silly, I know. I'm
happy here.

}-----

Waiting for Jasper to come up with the last piece of the puzzle was difficult. Every day I
waited for Alice to get home, giving her the same anxious face when she opened the door.
And every day she shook her head sadly and gave me a small smile.

"He'll get the address, Bella," she would say soothingly. "Jasper is very good at what he
does."

He may have been good at his job, but he was also brusque and surly. I couldn't see the
attraction, but Alice was completely smitten. He walked her home from work almost every
day, often staying for dinner before disappearing with her for the evening. While Alice was
talkative and optimistic, Jasper rarely spoke, and when he did his words were laced with
skepticism. More than once I wondered what could have happened to him that leave him so
disillusioned.

I was rarely alone, Edward saw to that. He walked with me to the market in the mornings
and in the afternoons I'd accompany him to whatever quai he was painting at that day
before heading home to make dinner. I would have argued, but with no job, no leads, and no
cat to take care of, my days were fairly empty. Besides, watching Edward paint was
fascinating.

One of the first things I discovered was that he made faces when he concentrated. He was
completely unaware of it, which made it that much more endearing. He would purse his lips
and frown, clenching and unclenching his jaw as he focused on his subject. When something
was coming together, his whole face would lighten and relax. His eyebrows seemed to move
independent of the rest of his face, waggling oddly as he filled his brush or measured a
troublesome angle. Sometimes it took all I had not to giggle.

The oddest part about those afternoons with Edward was watching the way he interacted
with his customers… his female customers in particular. This Edward was confident and
smooth. He never stuttered, although once and a while I did catch him throwing me nervous
glances as he bartered with the women who came to buy his art. The smiles he offered to
those who bought something were breathtaking, of course, but they weren't the same
smiles he gave me. The smile he reserved especially for me was warm and lingering, and
often slightly cocky and knowing, as if he knew that the second he looked at me my heart
started to pound.

While watching Edward was captivating, after the first day I started to notice the other
passersby on the quais where he painted. Colorful characters surrounded us, jabbering in
English, French, Italian and German. It sparked at my imagination, and their stories
beckoned to me invitingly. I dug the worn composition notebook from the bottom of my
suitcase and borrowed a pen from Alice, and the next day I began to fill pages with sketches
and doodles. It was the first time I had written anything consistently in years.

In the evenings, Edward revealed a different part of himself. He opened up and laid himself
bare for the customers who came to drink, smoke, and dance in the dark, smoky main room
at Le Tabou. I sat at a tiny table right next to the stage within eyeshot of the stage and
stared shamelessly during his sets. I didn't want to come at first, but Edward insisted,
saying he wasn't comfortable with the thought of me sitting at home alone when Alice was
out and he was busy at the club. After the first night, I never objected again. There was
something graceful, almost feline, about the way he moved, and after every song his eyes
would search out my own and stare for just a few seconds. It was romantic on a scale I
hadn't even considered before, and he did it without saying a single word. Sometimes
Emmett would come along and sit with me, and we would trade stories about our
childhoods in the States, and Edward and Rosalie.

On nights when Edward didn't play at Le Tabou, he would beg me to visit him at Esme's.
He'd give me a sidelong glance and a heartbreaking smile and say, "Debussy misses you. He
won't even eat when you're not there. Please?"

He was always careful to couch it in terms that didn't include himself. "Debussy hasn't seen
you for a few days," or, "Esme was asking about you, won't you come over for a visit?" After
the day of the attack, he didn't mention his feelings for me again. He held my hand often,
and it was rare that a visit with Edward didn't include a few searing kisses, but we seemed
to have an unspoken agreement not to talk about it. That was fine with me, because I had no
idea what I would say if he brought it up.

"I'm starting to care about you a lot, but as soon as I find my friend I'm planning on traveling
thousands of miles away and I'll probably never come back."

That answer left a little to be desired.

"There's a boy back home who thinks we'll get married some day, but I've never felt even a
tenth of what I feel around you with him."

That seemed overly dramatic, not to mention the fact that actually telling Edward about my
feelings for him would make it all seem more real, somehow. With every day that passed, I
felt myself grow more unsure about what my future held. I felt like I was on some kind of
extra long vacation, separated from reality.

I had been in Paris for just under two weeks when Jasper finally came up with the
information we needed. I was sitting with Edward in his garret, trying to coax Debussy out
from behind Edward's tattered arm chair. The two of them hadn't bonded quite as quickly
as I hoped they would. And by that I mean that Edward barely tolerated the cat, and
Debussy took every opportunity to bite, growl, and hiss at Edward. I was sure that all they
needed was some quality time together, so every time I came over I would pull Debussy out
from whatever hidey hole he was wedged in and sit near Edward, swatting Debussy lightly
when he growled.

"Just leave the bloody cat in peace," Edward begged. He squatted behind me and brushed
my hair away from my neck. His hot breath raised goose bumps on my skin. "We'll all be
much happier if the cat stays where he is." I felt his lips drag lightly under my ear, and his
hands snuck up to my waist, pulling me lightly against his chest.

"You don't have to be so mean to him," I murmured, turning my head slightly so his lips
touched my cheek. Our physical relationship confused me, but it was hard to resist the
feelings that he evoked in me. I held myself in check, wanting him but not being sure how
wise a feeling that was.

"We're mean to each other," he responded lightly, pulling away. "We share a mutual
disrespect."

I opened my mouth to argue with him but stopped when I heard thundering footsteps on
the stair. A few seconds later, Jasper, Alice, and Emmett burst into Edward's garret. Alice
looked positively radiant, beaming from ear to ear. Emmett shot us his usual dimply grin,
and even Jasper's customary scowl seemed softer than usual.

"He got it!" Alice squealed, running over to where I sat and lowering herself onto the floor.
It was a sign of how excited she was that she didn't even flinch about sitting on Edward's
dusty attic floor. "Royce's address, Jasper finally found it."

My face split into a grin and I looked up at Jasper. "Really? What are we waiting for? Let's go
over there now and talk to him."

Jasper walked over to the little kitchen area and sat on a rickety wooden chair. "We have to
be careful about how we approach this guy. I heard some funny things when I was trying to
hunt him down. Then there's the little matter of how he ordered a couple of goons to attack
you."

Edward grimaced and reached out for my hand. I let him take it, but looked at both of them
with disbelief.

"We don't have any proof that Royce is connected with those men outside Alice's place. All
we know is they work with James, who is somehow connected to Royce. And what kind of
funny things?"

Emmett walked forward and joined Jasper at the table. "After we talked, I started asking
around, just to see if I could dig anything up that would help Jasper."

Jasper pressed his lips in a thin line, and his scowl returned in full force. It struck me as an
odd reaction to have to Emmett, who seemed to genuinely care about helping me find Rose.

"I couldn't find anyone who could tell me what exactly Royce does here in Paris," Emmett
continued, unfazed by Jasper's less than friendly facial expressions. "I run in a pretty wide
circle of businessmen, and I found a few guys who knew of Royce King, but that's as far as I
was able to get. Everyone got very tight lipped when I started pressing for details."

"I did find out more about our friend James LaFave," Jasper cut in. "It seems his drug trade
is just a side business. His real moneymaker is blackmail. Apparently he's an expert at
finding people and ferreting out dirty little secrets."

"Did you find out how he's connected to Royce?" I asked. James sounded like a nasty
character, but I was holding out hope that Royce had legitimate reasons for associating with
him. The alternative was that Rose had somehow fallen in with a criminal, and that was too
terrifying to consider at the moment.

"No, but it's something I plan to ask when we call on him," Jasper growled.

Edward nodded curtly. "Royce has a lot to answer for," he agreed. "I think the three of us
should be able to… persuade him to give us the information we're looking for."

"Men like him are all cowards at heart," Jasper said with a grim smile. Even Emmett cracked
his knuckles and nodded solemnly.

"You're just going to charge in there and start throwing punches?" I asked, exasperated.
"What if Rose is in serious trouble? He's not going to tell you anything if you barge in there
like a herd of elephants! I'm sure if I could just talk to him—"

"You're not coming," Edward growled. His grip on my hand tightened. "I'm not about to let
you walk into a potentially dangerous situation. You'll stay here with Alice and Esme. We
can handle this."

"The hell she will!" Alice interrupted. "It's nice of you boys to help us out, and we're
grateful, but Bella and I started this thing and we're going to finish it."

"We'll come right back after we talk to him," Edward said calmly. "If Rose is with him, we'll
bring her with us. If not you girls are certainly free to come with us when we go to fetch
her."

"I can't believe you expect us to sit around and wait while you have all the fun," Alice fumed.
"We don't need to be babysat, and we're just as capable of asking questions as you are."

"You're not coming and that's final," Jasper said, turning the full force of his dark glare on
her. She didn't even flinch. "Alice, what if something happened to you?"

"Nothing's going to happen," she grumbled, crossing her arms over her chest. "I've told you
before, I can take care of myself. And Bella's won bar fights." Emmett coughed, almost like
he was covering up a laugh.

Edward gave a disgusted little sigh and shook his head. "We're not talking about this
anymore. It's late, so we'll go over tomorrow. We can all meet here around 4 o'clock
tomorrow. Jasper, Emmett and I will go to Royce's address, and we'll come back after we
speak with him. Agreed?"

Alice and I didn't say anything, but she gave me a meaningful look and a quick nod that
none of the boys seemed to catch. She yawned widely and stretched her arms.

"Now that you've hijacked our search and rescue, Bella and I want to go home."

"We do?" I asked, bewildered. Usually Edward didn't walk me home until much later in the
evening.

"Yes, we do." She widened her eyes and nodded again, slower this time.

"Um, okay. Edward, I'm going to go home with Alice."

"Jasper and I will walk you," he said promptly.

"There's two of us, we can walk ourselves home. I don't know why you can't just trust us."

"It has nothing to do with trust," he insisted. "It's dark and there could be more men waiting
for you. We're coming with you."

My anger surged, and for the first time, Edward reminded me of Jacob. We had had a similar
conversation right before I left for college for the first time.

"I want you to promise me you won't go walking around campus on your own."

"I can take care of myself, Jacob. My parents trust me to be careful, why don't you?"
"It's not you I don't trust, it's everyone else."

I had walked alone, at night no less, on many occasions throughout my three and a half
years at Seattle, and not once had anything happened to me. Not that I broadcast that
information to Jacob, but the fact that he didn't even give me the benefit of the doubt made
me furious every time he brought it up. To hear the same argument from Edward, who was
nothing like Jacob, irritated me to no end. Without thinking, I snapped out the retort I
always wanted to give to him.

"I already have a father, Edward." I stood up and offered a hand to Alice. She hoisted herself
up and adjusted her skirts. "He's back in Washington. I don't recall asking you to take over
for him. We'll see you tomorrow."

"Bye Jasper," Alice said, waving at him with a wink. "I know we had plans, but Bella and I
haven't really spent much time together over the last week. You understand."

I took one more quick glance and Edward and Jasper and then turned and hurried toward
the stairs, holding in my laughter. They were gaping at us, frozen and apparently in shock.
Good.

We made our way down through the house and burst onto the street. Once we were clear of
the front stoop, we both started giggling.

"Did…you…see their faces?" Alice wheezed. "Edward looked like you could have knocked
him over with a feather!"

"And Jasper," I laughed. "Did you see how wide his mouth was hanging open?"

"I think the only one who didn't look surprised was Emmett," Alice added, with an odd little
half grin. She took a deep breath. "Jasper doesn't trust him. Thinks he's got some ulterior
motive. I told him it's ridiculous, but he won't listen."

"Emmett?" I asked, shocked. "What kind of ulterior motive could he possibly have to help us
find a lost girl?"

"Well, Rose is a stunner," Alice shrugged. "And she's got a tidy inheritance."

"That's awful," I said immediately. "Emmett is a wonderful friend, and a perfect gentleman.
He's helping us because he cares. I've told him all about Rose, and back home. He's doing
this out of the goodness of his heart."

"I agree with you," she responded. "But Jasper… he doesn't trust easily. He doesn't let
people in. I think the only reason he and Edward get along as well as they do is because
they're both trying to protect us."
I frowned, remembering how adamant both of them had been about keeping us out of
Royce's way.

"We can't let them go over and confront Royce. They'll make a mess out of everything."

"Bella Swan, if you are suggesting that we go behind their backs and talk to Royce
ourselves," Alice said, her face a mask of shock, "I completely agree with you." She grinned
and I laughed, relieved we were in agreement.

"But we don't have the address Jasper found," I remembered with a start.

"Correction: you don't have the address." Alice pulled a piece of paper out of her purse and
waved it in front of me. "I copied it before we went over to Esme's when Jasper wasn't
looking. I was afraid he'd go all macho on us. If they're really not going to let us come with
them, we'll just have to beat them to it."

We walked up to the apartment, Alice leading the way. "I know exactly where this place is,"
she continued, flipping the light switch and discarding her purse on the table beside the
door. "Besides, this situation clearly calls for a light touch. I doubt Edward and Jasper are
capable of subtlety at this point."

"What if they're right?" I asked slowly. "What if Royce is involved in something dangerous?
Is it really safe for us to go alone?"

"He lives in an upscale neighborhood, and we'll go in the middle of the afternoon. There'll
be plenty of people around. I don't see what he could do to us under those circumstances."

We spent the rest of the evening planning. Alice decided it would be better to go straight
from Royce's place to Esme's, so we would be meeting the boys with the encounter fresh in
our mind. They would be furious, of course, but once we showed them what a little feminine
ingenuity could accomplish they wouldn't have a choice but to agree that we were right.

Alice made me feel like I could do anything. She asked my opinion about everything and
teased me about my bar fight moves as we came up with a game plan. I'd never done
something so sneaky and disobedient before, but she made it feel so easy. The old Bella
would have argued with Edward until it became clear he wasn't budging and then resigned
herself to his decision. Paris Bella wasn't resigned to anything. I was fed up with being
dragged around and told where to be and what to do. Something in me snapped as soon as
Edward said I wasn't allowed to come. Alice wasn't going to listen. She wasn't going to let
herself be bossed around… and neither was I.

*****

The next day was sunny and clear. Birds were singing and everything was budding and
green. Paris was blooming in the warm March air, and it felt like a good omen as Alice and I
set off for Royce's address that afternoon.
"Now remember, don't try to get his back up right away," I cautioned Alice, who was
walking so quickly I had to jog to keep up. "You can catch more flies with honey than
vinegar."

"Yeah, yeah," she grumbled. "That's about right, the man's a big bug."

I stopped abruptly and grabbed her arm, forcing her to stop moving.

"We have a plan, Alice. Don't forget it. We're doing this without the boys because they were
going to charge in there with accusations and threats. If you're going to do the same thing,
then we may as well just let them do this."

She sighed heavily and nodded. "You're right, I know. I'll be good."

I arched an eyebrow at her skeptically.

"I promise," she huffed. "Can we go now?"

"Yes."

We had crossed the river, and the buildings looked older and more distinguished than the
ones in Alice's neighborhood. The shops scattered along the way looked expensive and
nearly empty. Alice stopped at one window and stared longingly at a dress on a mannequin.
I had to tug her slightly to get her moving again, which she did, reluctantly.

"Once we find Rosalie, we'll go shopping for real," she sighed, marching ahead of me so she
could navigate us. "That girl has exquisite taste. Not that I don't love scavenging the Vogue
closet, but a girl cannot live on samples alone."

"Whatever you say, Alice," I laughed. I had grown accustomed to her need to dress me up,
and I actually found I liked it a lot most days. It made me a little sad to think about going
back to the sensible woolens and cotton standards of my wardrobe back home.

We finally reached an elegant white stone house with a bright red door and a gold knocker
on the front door. It was nestled between its neighbors with an air of smug superiority, if
such a thing was possible. It sat just a tad taller, looking slightly cleaner and statelier than
the houses on its right and left. I wondered if it was my imagination.

Alice and I strode up to the front door arm in arm. Our goal was to present a united front,
dazzling Royce with our "feminine charm." Alice's words, not mine. She insisted on crisp
white gloves and makeup, though I resisted as long as I could. She settled for a layer of face
powder and red lipstick, but not until I agreed to the ridiculous clutch purse I was carrying.
I tucked it under my arm as Alice adjusted her hat and plastered on a bright smile.

She rapped her fist against the red painted door. A few moments passed, and when no one
answered, she knocked again.

We waited, but no one came to the door. "Maybe he's not home," I whispered. "We could try
back later."

"No," she said with a frown. "Later the boys will come. We need to do this now. If he's not
home, maybe he has a maid or a butler who can tell us where he is."

She knocked again, and we finally heard a shuffling sound on the other side of the door. The
door swung open and a tall, blonde man with ice blue eyes looked down at us. He was
impeccably dressed in a clean white shirt and a black tie with crisply pressed black pants
and shiny, patent leather dress shoes.

"Can I help you?" he asked, barely concealing his irritation. He spoke in the same cultured
British accent that Edward did. He looked about the same age as Carlisle. I wondered if this
was Royce's father, or maybe his uncle.

"We're looking for Mr. Royce King," Alice said with a seductive smile. "Do you know where
he is?"

"Yes, that's me," he said curtly. "May I help you?"

My eyes widened in surprise. Rose had never told me Royce's age, but I had just assumed he
was no more than a few years older than her. This man could easily be her father.

"My name is Bella Swan," I stuttered. "I'm looking for a friend of mine, and I think you might
know where she is. Her name is Rosalie Hale."

His eyebrows shot up and he looked me over. "Rosalie Hale? I'm sorry, I don't know who
you're referring to."

"I'm sure you do," I insisted, confused that he would deny even knowing her. "She wrote to
me about you all the time."

"Ah, wait a moment," he mused. "Does she go by Rose? I took a young woman named Rose
to a couple of parties last fall. She was tall and blonde, absolutely gorgeous."

"That's her!" Alice said immediately. I could tell she was chomping at the bit to start
questioning him further, but I hoped she would take her time. The last thing we wanted to
do was make him defensive all at once. "I think you spent quite a bit more time with her
than just a few parties, though, didn't you?"

"And who are you?" Royce asked, taking a step forward and leaning casually against the
door. Even slouched, he towered over Alice.

"Alice Brandon, Rose's roommate," Alice said promptly. "And she was seeing you almost
constantly from about mid-September. So why don't you come clean and tell us where she
is? We just want to talk to her. We're worried."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he sneered. "Rose Hale was a common tart. I met
her at a club one night, and I showed her around for a weekend or so. She was…rather
grateful."

He smirked, and my stomach clenched unpleasantly.

"Now wait just a minute—" I started.

"No, you wait, Miss Swan," Royce interrupted. "I know your type. You'll stand there in your
provocative skirts and tight blouses while taking the moral high ground." He leered
unpleasantly, and I took an unsteady step back. "Your friend Rose knew exactly what she
was getting into. She was a small town girl away from home for the first time, and she was
letting her hair down. I see it all the time. After she spent the weekend with me, she moved
on to the next wealthy businessman she found."

"Rose wouldn't do something like that, and she wouldn't lie to me," I insisted, squaring my
chin and meeting his gaze. "She told me all about your relationship. She said you were
talking about marriage."

He let out one short, harsh guffaw. "Marriage? With that whore?"

"How dare you?" I sputtered, stepping up to go toe to toe with him. Alice followed me,
gripping onto my arm strongly, anchoring me.

"I bet you're just like your friend," he said lowly, lifting a hand and grabbing a lock of my
hair. I flinched away, but he held tight. "New to the city, just off the boat probably. I
wouldn't mind taking you into my bed for a few evenings."

"She's not available. She's got a boyfriend and he's huge, and he has a temper," Alice
snapped, pulling me backwards. Royce released my hair, but stepped forward as we
retreated. "And don't get me started on mine. They'll tear you apart when they hear what
you've said to us."

"Will they?" Royce's nostrils flared and he straightened up again. "Are you referring to the
scrawny piano player from Le Tabou and that nosy reporter from the Associated Press? I
understand you also spend a good deal of time with an acquaintance of mine, a Mr.
McCarty?" I couldn't control the gasp of surprise that left my throat, and he smiled
knowingly.

"Are you enjoying your time on the Rue de Seine, Miss Swan?" he asked silkily with another
step forward. "I must say, I'm a little concerned… two young women living alone, in a
building that's practically unsecured. So far from your families too; that makes you easy
prey, you know. Why, I can't imagine it would take much creativity for any lowlife to break
into a place like that. I understand there's been a rash of muggings in the area."

My throat tightened. "What have you done to Rose?"

"Nothing she didn't beg me for," he said with a grin. Even in the bright afternoon sun, he
looked predatory. I couldn't see a trace of the gentleman Rose had described, despite the
fine clothes and perfectly distinguished accent.

"I think we'd better go, Bella," Alice said in a low, harsh voice.

I started to protest, but she had my arm in an iron grip, and we were back to the sidewalk
before I could dig in my heels.

"It was a pleasure meeting you ladies," Royce called, drawing out the word 'pleasure.' "I do
hope we run into each other soon."

"We can't just leave," I said, tripping over my feet as Alice dragged me up the street.

"Yes, we can," she said firmly.

"We were just getting started! He was finally telling us something."

"He was also threatening us, and not so subtly either. We were about two seconds from
being pulled into that house, and then God knows what would have happened."

"I think you're overreacting," I huffed. "Sure, he was scary, but he couldn't have pulled both
of us in without risking creating a scene. We were perfectly safe."

"You've got a lot to learn about safety, kid," she muttered, still towing me strongly. "There
was nobody on that street, which means he could have forced us inside without anyone
seeing it happen. We don't know who was in that house with him. And he basically admitted
to being behind those thugs who attacked you outside our apartment."

My heart started pounding as her words registered. "But… but what does this mean for
Rose? Do you think he attacked her? What if she's hurt somewhere? What if—"

I couldn't bring myself to finish the statement. If Royce was capable of the things it seemed
like he was capable of, then Rose could be anywhere. She could be dead. At the very least
she was wrapped up with drug dealers and blackmailers.

"We have to tell the boys about this," Alice sighed, turning up the road that led to Esme's
house. We had practically run through the streets, and the fifteen minute walk had barely
taken us ten. "They're not going to be happy."

I groaned, thinking about what Edward would do when he found out that Royce had not
only threatened me, but had touched me. We hadn't really gone into details over his break
with reality in the alley, but I was afraid of what would happen if he thought I was in
danger. I didn't want him to go and attack Royce, who seemed well connected and could
certainly get Edward thrown in jail.

"Do you think they're going to yell?" I asked, slowing down and pulling my arm from Alice's
hand.

"No question," she laughed. "But don't worry. We'll just have to recruit Esme to act as a
shield. She has some weird mind powers over Edward, and she scares the hell out of Jasper.
Emmett won't yell, he'll just be worried."

We walked in the front door and wandered into the kitchen. Esme lounged in a kitchen
chair with a book in one hand and a glass of wine in front of her.

"Mes chères! Bonjour, ça va?"

"Esme! Just the woman we were looking for," Alice said conspiratorially. "We need your
help. Do you think you can work your magic on our men?"

Her eyes got wide and she leaned forward, nudging two chairs out from the table with her
foot. "Absolument. Tell me all about it."
***

Chapter 12

4:15.

Checking the clock again confirmed it. It was a quarter past four and there was no sign of
Bella and Alice.

I turned on my heel and paced back across the room again, trying not to dwell on the
tightening fist of anxiety in my chest. I couldn't just sit here and wait. I needed to get out
there, race to her place, find out where she was, make sure she was safe.

"Damn, Edward, sit down already," Emmett sighed.

"You're making me antsy with the pacing," Jasper growled from where he sat straddling my
kitchen chair backwards.

I shot him a murderous glare. "I'm sorry if my girlfriend going missing has got me a little
edgy," I snapped sarcastically.

He glared back at me. "They're not missing. They're a few minutes late. Christ, Alice
probably saw a damned pair of shoes she couldn't live without on the way over."

I was about to lay into him about Bella's reliability and punctuality when the sound of many
footsteps tapping up the wooden stairs yanked my head to the door.

"Bonjour, mes amis," Esme trilled as she sailed through the door. I was momentarily
dejected until I saw Alice and Bella slipping quietly in the door behind her. I was so relieved
to see Bella that I almost didn't notice how uncharacteristically quiet they were. Almost.

I crossed the small room in three long strides, seizing Bella's hands in mine.

"Where have you been? I was worried sick."

Bella's eyes got wider and shot to Alice. A brief silent communication passed between them,
making the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Something was definitely afoot.

"Are the mademoiselles late, Edward?" Esme asked lightly. "It's my fault. Je suis désolée.
They found me in the kitchen and I simply couldn't let them go. N'est-ce pas?"

"We just…have someplace to be. I was worried, that's all," I stammered. "We should get
going, girls."

"Ah…yeah…about that…" Alice said. The tone of her voice caused all three pairs of male eyes
in the room to swivel in her direction. I had a bad feeling about what she was going to say.
She and Bella looked guilty as sin and Esme…well, she was clearly covering for them.

"What have you been up to, Alice?" Jasper growled lowly across the room.

"So," she began brightly, fidgeting with the button on her glove to avoid looking at Jasper,
"we have some good news and bad news. The good news is that those goons who attacked
Bella in the alley weren't sent by that drug-dealing creep, James."

No one said anything. We all just stared expectantly at Alice. All except Bella, who suddenly
found the clasp on her handbag fascinating.

"What's the bad news?" Emmett finally broke the silence.

"Well, it turns out it was Royce who sent them."

Bella released my hands and took a nearly imperceptible step back away from me. I
processed Alice's words for a moment, trying to sort out how she would know this.

"How'd you find that out, Alice?" Jasper asked, his voice tight with anger.

Alice inhaled deeply before looking up at him. "Bella and I paid him a visit earlier."
The room was silent for a moment before Jasper and Emmett surged to their feet in unison
and stormed towards us. I rounded on Bella.

"You went on your own?"

She stared up at me, eyes wide, and nodded.

"Are you crazy?" Jasper growled.

"You could have been bloody killed!" I shouted.

"Girls, what the hell were you thinking?" Emmett moaned. The room felt ready to explode
with our combined anger.

"Boys! Boys!" Esme's honeyed voice cut through the chaos of the room as she threw up a
hand to silence us. We all shut up on the spot, because that's what Esme could make you do.
"This was how you were going to talk to this man? Is it any wonder that the girls didn't want
you there?"

"We knew you boys would bust in there and make a big scene," Alice piped up. "We figured
we could talk to him calmly and maybe he'd be more cooperative."

"And?" Jasper snapped.

Alice's face twisted. "Well, we found out some stuff, but it didn't go so well."

"What happened?" I pushed. "Tell us everything, from the beginning."

"Just stay calm, Edward," Bella finally spoke. She stepped forward and laid her little hand
on my chest. I reached up and wrapped my hand around hers, grateful for her touch, but
anxious about why she needed to reassure me like that.

"Well, first the louse tried to tell us he didn't even know her!" Alice began, perching her
fists on her hips indignantly. "Can you believe that? So then Bella and I call him out on it, tell
him Rose talked about him in her letters and that I was her roommate and knew all about
him. Then the lowlife admits he knew her, but only a little. And then he said…" Alice trailed
off, her eyes shut, her jaw clenched in anger.

"What did he say?" I prompted.

"He said…he called her a whore," Bella finished Alice's sentence, the words nearly choking
her.

"He what?" Emmett snapped.

Esme made a disgusted and unladylike snort of displeasure.

Bella cleared her throat and continued, "He said she was just looking for rich businessmen.
He said he showed her around and she…showed her gratitude. I told him what Rose
said…that they were going to get married, and that son of a bitch laughed!"

I was momentarily taken aback, as I'd never heard Bella curse before. Her face was a mask
of fury, her fists were clenched so hard that she was shaking. She was mad, but there was
something else at work here.

"What else happened?" I muttered, almost afraid to hear her answer.

"He...he just…"

"Did he touch you?" My voice was quaking with rage.

She didn't say anything but her eyes flickered away from mine for just a second and that
gave me my answer.

"That bloody bastard!" I roared in fury. My heart started to pound, imagining Bella there
alone with him, his hands on her, what might have happened to her... My breathing was
ragged and my fists clenched uncontrollably with the desire to hit something, hard. "I'm
going to rip him to pieces!"

"Edward!" Bella's voice pierced through the red fog in my head. I felt her hands on my face,
forcing my head down, forcing me to look at her. "It's alright. Look! I'm fine! It's okay."

I reached out and gripped her upper arms hard. "Don't ever go near him again. Promise
me!"

"Edward, calm down!"

"Edward," Esme's soothing voice cut in. I felt her hand close on my forearm softly, "Bella is
alright. The girls spoke to him. Was it a little dangerous? Yes. But they are strong girls, they
handled him. And now you know what you need to know about this Royce King."

"Which is pretty much nothing," Emmett sighed. "He didn't tell you anything about where
she might be now?"

Alice shook her head glumly. "Not a thing. The only other thing we got out of him was that
he knows a hell of a lot about all of us."

"What do you mean?" Jasper asked.

"He knew you'd been trying to track him down and that you work for the AP," she told him.
"He knew Edward works at Le Tabou. He knew Emmett spends time with us. I think he's
been having us watched."
We all took a minute to let that sink in.

"Why would he go through all that trouble if he really hasn't seen Rose in months?" Emmett
asked to no one in particular.

"He wouldn't," Bella replied, her voice wavering slightly. "He knows where she is, I'm sure
of it. And it's so much worse than I thought. She's in terrible danger."

The stress and anxiety of her day was finally getting to her. She was about to cry, I could
hear it in her voice. I put my arm around her waist and pulled her into my chest, reaching
up and stroking her hair with my other hand. She rested her forehead against me and fisted
her hands into my shirt.

"I say we head over there and show the guy we're not afraid of him," Emmett growled. "You
girls tried it your way, now why don't you let us try it our way?"

Jasper gave a terse nod of agreement and I was fully on board with that plan, but Alice
interjected. "Hey, now! You guys go over there and beat the crap out of him, and what good
will that do? It'll make you feel better, but do you really think he'll just tell you? He's a
scary, powerful guy. He could have you all hurt or killed. And we still wouldn't know where
Rose is."

"Alice is right," Esme said. "Force is not the way. He has more of it. We'll have to think of
something better."

"But what?" Bella asked, despair evident in her voice. "If he doesn't tell us where she is, how
will I find her?"

"We'll think of something, love," I murmured against her hair.

"Damn it all to hell!" Jasper snapped. "I'm going back over to the office. Maybe I can dig up
something else on him."

"Why don't I come?" Emmett suggested. "Maybe I'll recognize a name, somebody he knows?
We run in some of the same circles, after all."

Jasper gave him a long hard mistrustful glare, but eventually had to concede that Emmett
was right, so he nodded his head in acceptance.

"Alice," he said, reaching out to take her arm, "don't you step foot out of here alone, got it?
You wait here until I get back."

She nodded, momentarily tamed by the gravity of her situation.

"She will stay with me," Esme purred, hooking Alice's arm with hers. "I have some friends
coming over tonight and just look at me! A fright! Come, ma petite Alice, you must help me
get dressed."

Jasper and Emmett turned and clumped down the stairs. Alice reached out to Bella, taking
her hand.

"It's going to be okay, Bella. I'm sure Jasper and Emmett will turn up something. You'll see!"

Bella gave Alice a small, tight smile before Esme pulled her away down the stairs.

Once we were alone Bella gave in and her face fell. I pulled her back into my arms, holding
her against me, running my hand up and down her back soothingly.

"What am I going to do?" she whispered hoarsely.

"Shhh, love. It'll be okay. We'll think of something. Come here, sit down."

I led her over to the edge of the bed since there wasn't really anywhere else in the room to
sit side by side besides the floor. Thankfully all the visitors had spooked Debussy and he
was hiding instead of poking his unwelcomed half-bitten nose in on us. As soon as we sat
down, Bella curled into my side, seeking comfort and relief. I held her that way for a long
time, rocking her gently while she regained control. I knew she didn't like to feel weak like
this, so I said nothing. I just held her while she pulled herself together.

Finally she pushed away from me slightly, raising her head to look at me.

"Thank you," she murmured.

"What for?"

"Helping me. You don't have to, but you do it anyway. It's just…nice."

"If it's important to you then it's important to me," I said, aware suddenly of how serious,
how committed I sounded. But I didn't care. She knew I was crazy about her, it was
pointless to try and hide it.

She reached up and laid her hand on my cheek before she leaned in to kiss me. It was sweet
and gentle, but Bella didn't often initiate contact so my pulse began to race from the simple
kiss. I slid my arm around her waist and pulled her in against me and she didn't resist. I
deepened the kiss and she let me, responding, sliding her fingers into my hair in that way
that drove me mad. It must have been the adrenaline still coursing through my body, the
thought that she'd been in danger just a little while ago and now I had her here in my arms.
But the next thing I knew I was pressing her back on the bed, kissing her deeply, urgently. I
knew I'd crossed the line as my hand unconsciously curled around the back of Bella's bare
knee and she gasped.
I reared back off of her immediately, letting her up, scooting back to give her a little space.
Her face was flushed, her hair mussed from the bed. She was breathing hard, her hand flat
against her chest. Damn, I didn't want to stop. But it hadn't escaped my notice that she was
very clearly keeping me at arms' length, both physically and emotionally. We didn't speak
about it, we had some sort of silent agreement about that, but I knew what it was. She was
American. She lived thousands of miles away from here. Her life was not in Paris. I didn't
know what that would mean for us, but I knew I'd have to talk to her about it soon. In the
meantime, I needed to reassure her that I wasn't going to push her too fast.

"I'm sorry, Bella. Really, I am. I just got carried away."

"It's okay," she whispered, her voice tight and small. I could feel her pulling even further
away from me and I wanted to kick myself.

"Ah, bloody hell. I just keep messing this up," I muttered, dropping my head into my hands.
"Right from the start, I've done it all wrong. Stealing your first kiss like that, you deserved
better."

"My first kiss?" her head lifted slightly.

"The first time you were kissed it should have been romantic, not like I did it, some colossal
misguided mistake."

"That wasn't the first time," she murmured.

Her words cut right through my sea of self-loathing and I picked up my head to look at her.

"Not the first time?"

Bella shrugged, her eyes on the floor, "Sure, there's Jacob. I'm not a child, Edward."

"Jacob?" My voice sounded tight and far away. I hadn't missed her casual use of the present
tense. There's Jacob. Who the hell is Jacob and why is he kissing my Bella? I felt my whole
world constrict down to a pinprick as the implications came crashing down on me. She had
someone back home. Of course she did. A girl as lovely and magnificent as she was wouldn't
be wandering around alone. Someone else would have wanted her. Someone else had her.

Bella sensed the tension in my voice and finally looked up. Her face grew alarmed as she
met my gaze.

"Who the bloody hell is Jacob?" I pressed.

"No, Edward, you don't understand…" she began to stammer frantically.

"You're right. I don't. What is this, Bella? What are you playing at? Am I just a distraction for
you? Something to keep you amused while you kill time in Paris? An exotic little memory
for you to carry home when you go back to him?" My voice was getting louder as the anger
and dismay took over.

"No!" Bella scooted up on her knees on the bed and reached forward, grasping my face in
her hands. "It's not like that, Edward. I swear. Will you just listen to me?"

I said nothing. I just stared back at her, which she took as an invitation to go on. I wanted
her to. I wanted her to tell me it was okay, that there was only me. I didn't know what I
would do if she confirmed everything I'd just said.

She sat back on her heels and released my face, moving her hands to grasp mine in her lap.
She looked out through the skylight at the Paris rooftops and took a deep breath.

"There was someone at home, Jacob. I've known him all my life. He wants to marry me."

"You're engaged?" I shouted, trying to pull my hands back, but Bella didn't release me.

"No! We're not. I said he wants to marry me. We dated in high school, but we weren't really
committed once I went off to college. I saw him on vacations and he'd still take me out, but
nothing serious. He would still talk about marrying me one day and I never told him no.
But…since I got here and met you, it's all…everything just feels different. I see now that I
never loved him, not like I should. I could never marry him."

She exhaled heavily and began to rub her thumbs back and forth across the backs of my
hands. I smiled a little at her casual gesture of affection at this moment. It made me feel
optimistic. Maybe there had been this bloke back home, but it seemed like she was saying
they were finished.

"See, here's the thing about Jacob," she went on. "It was all just easy. He was always part of
the plan I have for my life. I was going to finish college, move back home, become a teacher,
marry Jake. But since I got here and met you everything has gotten so complicated…I'm just
really confused."

I knew she was anxious. Hell, I was, too. This was all overwhelming and unplanned, for both
of us. I didn't want to press her for a decision or a declaration too soon, because I feared it
would just drive her away from me. So I reached up and cupped her jaw with my hand,
running my thumb over her cheekbone lightly.

"Hey, you don't have to figure it all out right now. Just tell me that you're not running back
into the arms of another man and I'm happy."

She smiled at me, relieved. "No, I'm not."

"See? That's all I need. Come here."

I reached around to cradle the back of her head, pulling her forward so I could kiss her. She
came readily and kissed me back eagerly. I sighed, grateful that we were still okay.

Bella eventually pulled away and sat back on her heels again, still holding my hands. I was
glad she was still touching me so casually. I wanted this girl, more than I'd ever wanted a
girl before. But Bella wasn't going to give herself to me lightly, I knew that. First, it just
wasn't in her nature. But second, our peculiar circumstances and the transient nature of
our relationship were making her doubly cautious. Yes, I wanted her and I was sure
eventually I'd have her, but it would have to be on her timeline. And I was willing to be very
patient.

"Edward?"

"Hmmm?" I was absently tracing the outlines of her fingers against her dark skirt. She had
beautiful hands. I should draw her, I thought. Immediately I was thoroughly distracted by
images of Bella, pale and wrapped in a sheet, posing for me. I nearly moaned out loud.

"Can I ask you something?"

I shook my head to snap myself out of my entirely unwholesome fantasy and made myself
meet her eyes. "Of course."

"Who's Kate?"

Her question caught me completely off guard and I scowled a little in response. "I told you,
someone I knew in England."

"I know that. Who was she to you?"

I sighed heavily. It had been years since I'd talked about Kate to anyone. I felt like I was
dragging a dusty trunk of her memories out of the farthest reaches of my mind.

"She was my girlfriend, when I lived in England," I finally said, my voice emotionless.

"And she died?"

I nodded tightly.

"Can I ask what happened?"

I looked past Bella, out through the skylight, fighting against the old anger and pain.

"Why do you want to know?"

"Well, it was just odd that you said her name during that fight in the alley. You were so
angry, not even like yourself. And then today, when you found out I went to see Royce, it
was that same anger. Does it have something to do with Kate?"
I chuckled humorlessly and shook my head a little at her perceptiveness. She'd figured me
out even when I hadn't managed it myself.

"She died in a bombing run. In London, near the end of the war."

Bella gasped softly. "Oh, Edward. I'm so sorry."

I shook my head to dismiss her pity. I didn't want it, need it, or deserve it. "It was my fault. I
wasn't there to get her out in time."

Bella said nothing, she just sat back and stared hard at me. I ducked my head to avoid her
gaze, not wanting to see the disappointment in her face.

"Edward," she breathed. "You can't really believe that, can you?"

I shrugged, unable to find anything to say.

"No, look at me." Her voice was firmer, her hand came up to my chin, forcing my face up.
"Edward, it was horrible that it happened to her, but you can't blame yourself for not saving
her."

I could and I did, but I didn't say that to Bella. Her face was so earnest, her concern for me
was nearly breaking my heart. I smiled with as much warmth as I could muster. She smiled
back but it didn't reach her eyes.

"It wasn't your fault," she whispered.

"One day I might believe that," I returned. She opened her mouth to protest but I decided to
play a cheap angle and distract her, pulling her forward onto my lap and leaning in to kiss
her gently. She was just beginning to kiss me back when we heard light footsteps scurrying
up the stairs to the garret. Bella was scrambling back out of my lap as the door swung open
to admit Alice, tiny and crackling with energy.

"Oh, geez! Sorry!" she breathed, a hand clamped to her mouth, as she realized she'd walked
in on us.

"That's alright, Alice,' I said with a rueful grin, "just come right in."

Bella scrambled up off the bed, smoothing her skirt down. "What is it, Alice?"

"Oh, Bella," Alice said, remembering what brought her up. She shot forward and seized
Bella's hand, pulling her towards the door. "You have to come down. Esme's got the most
amazing guests here tonight and you're missing it!"

Bella looked back over her shoulder as Alice yanked her through the door. I smiled
reassuringly at her and raked a hand through my hair before I stood to follow her. After all,
I'd follow this girl anywhere.
***

Chapter 13

My second Esme Benoit party was just as chaotic as the first, though shorter lived. I
followed Alice blindly through the house with Edward trailing behind, stopping
occasionally to meet someone, smile and chat for a moment before moving onto the next
person Alice was dying to talk to. I met a poet, two artists, and a prima ballerina for the
Paris Opéra Ballet.

The events of the afternoon had overwhelmed me. My encounter with Royce had still been
fresh in my mind when Esme, Alice, and I had run up Edward's attic stairs. He reacted
exactly how I thought he would, but in the aftermath something unexpected happened.
Once we were alone, he let me cry until I was calm again, offering words of comfort. He was
tender.

When he kissed me it was intense and wonderful, and completely confusing. And then I
opened my big mouth and let Jacob's name slip. The look on Edward's face when I told him
that Jacob wanted to marry me... it was devastating. He looked heartbroken and absolutely
furious at the same time. I rushed to reassure him, even though I wasn't sure about
anything myself. All I knew was that Edward wasn't just someone I was spending time with
while I was in Paris. He was so much more than that.

After less than two weeks, everything that seemed easy and right before Paris suddenly
looked completely unappealing. The thought of leaving behind the freedoms that I had
gained here and returning to the drudgery of my English classes in Seattle, and then to the
quiet, all-too-restricting shelter of my parents' home in Forks made my heart clench.
Staying in Paris without a job or a plan was impossible, but falling back into my normal
routine seemed equally so.

Edward walked me home after only about an hour of mixing with the colorful personalities
that littered his house. It was just as well, because neither of us was in the mood to be light
and social. Edward barely said three words while he followed me and Alice around, despite
Alice's attempts to pull him out of his shell. I hoped he wasn't still dwelling on Jacob. I
smiled to myself when I remembered how I had distracted him. The feel of his lips, the
sound of his sighs as he pressed himself closer to me... I knew that whatever happened, I
couldn't ever forget the way he looked when he kissed me. Sensual. Blissful. Beautiful.

Just as he had every night since the attack, Edward walked me right up to the door of Alice's
apartment.
"No more going off on your own, do you understand me?" he murmured, pulling me into his
chest as we said goodbye. "If anything had happened to you..."

"I know," I whispered, inhaling the peculiar perfume of cigarettes, coffee, and paint that
always seemed to linger around him. "I promise."

He kissed the top of my head and pulled back to look at me. "Are you going to the market
tomorrow?"

"No, I got enough yesterday to last us a couple of days. We still have about another day's
worth of supplies."

"Do you want to come to the quai with me then? I was planning on going around my usual
time. We can stop for coffee and a pastry at that café you like so much and you can bring
your notebook? We'll make an afternoon of it, just you and me."

I smiled as he cradled my face in his hands for a moment and ran his thumbs over my
cheekbones. My heart pounded and my stomach swooped.

"Okay," I breathed. "I'll meet you at Esme's by noon."

"Don't be silly, Bella, I'll pick you up on my way."

I frowned and pulled away. "I appreciate your concern, but I'm perfectly capable of walking
to your house by myself. I'm not on your way."

When he didn't answer, I added, "I'm not going to go wandering off by myself, Edward. I
learned my lesson. Please just let it be."

He stared into my eyes for a moment before carefully lowering his face to my own. He
brushed his lips against mine, so soft, and then dropped his hands and stepped away.

"Be safe."

"You worry too much," I teased, unlocking the door and stepping inside. "I'll see you
tomorrow."

"If you weren't such a magnet for danger I wouldn't have to worry so much," he retorted.
"And yes, you will. If you're not there by noon I'm coming to look for you. Heaven help you if
you're in some new kind of mischief." He flashed me a mocking smile, but as he turned to go
I saw a flicker of genuine concern in his eyes.

I closed the door and wandered through the apartment to my room, kicking off my shoes
and dropping my clutch on the side table as I went. Edward's concern warmed me, but it
was also kind of annoying. Even after I had told him not to treat me like a child, he
continued to act like an overprotective guardian. A kind, loving, and extremely handsome
overprotective guardian.

Everything I was feeling reminded me of something I had read in Rose's letters. I smiled for
a moment, appreciating her words of romance in an exotic city for the first time. Reading
about it and actually feeling it myself was very different. Then I compared Royce and
Edward, and my smile slipped away. Just thinking about Royce made my skin crawl. His
hand in my hair, the predatory way he approached me, the nasty gleam in his eyes and the
harsh way he described Rose, the woman who loved him.

He was dangerous and frightening, and somehow I just knew that he had Rose. Maybe she
was locked away in his house, frightened and unable to leave. She could be hurt, with no
one to help her.

I had promised Edward I wouldn't go wandering off on my own... but if I knew where I was
going, it wasn't exactly wandering, was it? Somehow I didn't think that Edward would
appreciate the distinction. The more I thought about it, though, the more I knew I couldn't
just sit around and do nothing. Emmett and Jasper would get whatever additional
information they could get, but in the end it was still just talk. I needed to take action, do
something that would make me feel less powerless.

I pulled out my map and spread it on my bed, measuring the distance between Royce's
house and Esme's. The inklings of a plan started to form in my head, but I would have to
carry it out on my own. Alice probably wouldn't agree to come with me, especially
considering her assessment of our situation this afternoon. I had a fuzzy idea of stakeouts
and undercover operations thanks to radio serials and fragments of conversations I'd
overheard my father have. Maybe if I could follow Royce when he thought he was alone and
safe, he would lead me to something or someone who could help us. It would be risky, and I
would have to time it so that Edward didn't catch on to what I was up to, but I thought I was
familiar enough with the city to stay safe and make it back to meet Edward by noon.

Thus decided, I folded up my map and climbed into bed. I would need a good night's sleep if
I was going to pull this off.

*****

Alice was singing at the coffee pot when I woke up, just like she had been almost every
morning since I arrived. I had never been a big coffee drinker, but it was starting to grow on
me. I would have to see about getting a coffee pot when I returned home. There was
something comforting about the way it smelled that I appreciated even more than the sharp
jolt it gave me when I drank it.

I got dressed and walked into the kitchen to collect my market basket. Alice knew that
Edward had been obsessively protective, and she would get suspicious if I appeared to be
sneaking off somewhere without him. The market was a plausible excuse.

"You're up early," she said with surprise. "And already dressed? It's not even nine o'clock
yet!"

"The early bird catches the worm," I sang, masking my nerves with false cheer. "Do you
think you could pin my hair up in that twist you wanted to try? I can't seem to get it to
work."

She beamed at me. "Of course! Let me get some hair pins and I'll—"

I held out a handful of pins and a hairbrush, and I swear she almost cried. "What did I tell
you? You were a blank slate and now look at you. As stylish as any Parisian, prepared for
anything."

I laughed and slid into a chair, listening as Alice gave me a rundown on her plans for her
day. She didn't have any assignments at the magazine, although she promised that we
would go back soon because her friend Paul had been asking about "petit belle."

"Is Edward coming to take you to the market?" she asked, sliding one last pin into my hair
and handing me a hand mirror. It felt odd to have everything pinned up; I was so used to
feeling my hair swish against my neck. I still couldn't get over how different I looked from
how I was when I arrived. I was a different person.

"He's meeting me there, and then we're going to get a coffee and work for the afternoon.
Well, he'll be working, I'm just planning on doing some doodles." I gestured to the
composition book at the bottom of my basket.

"You know, plenty of people make their living off of writing," Alice said thoughtfully. "You
carry that notebook everywhere these days. I bet Jasper could help you find someone to
talk to about getting published. Esme could too, she knows so many authors."

"I'm not looking to be an author, don't be silly," I blustered. The thought of being published,
of sharing my little stories with strangers, made my heart pound, but I kept my face calm
and reserved. Alice had been wonderful, but I wasn't quite ready to share all my secrets
with her yet. Knowing her, she would probably latch onto the idea and never let it go. She
wouldn't listen when I explained that small town girls like me weren't rich-and-famous-
author material.

I stood up and adjusted my skirts. "It's just a hobby. I'll be back later this afternoon."

The walk to Royce's house took longer than it had the other day, and I had to check my map
a few times to make sure I wasn't getting lost. The possibility of losing my way was
suddenly more real to me. It didn't seem like a big deal the night before when I was tracing
routes with my map in front of me, but I couldn't have my map out and follow Royce with
any kind of stealth. It was highly possible that I would end up somewhere completely
unfamiliar and far from Edward with no idea how to return.

I paused, concealed behind a stoop several doors down from Royce's house, and considered
the problem. Rose was still missing. She could be hurt, or captive somewhere. No one was
taking any action. On the other hand, if I got lost we would both be missing, and God only
knows how I'd get myself out of that kind of trouble. I knew Edward would tear the city
apart looking for me, but Royce scared me.

It was that fear that decided it for me. What kind of friend would I be if I abandoned Rose
when things got hard? I had traveled across the world just to find her, I couldn't stop now. If
it seemed like Royce was going to an unfamiliar part of the city, I would abandon my
stakeout for another day. And who was to say he would even show his face this morning?
There was a good chance that he was already out and about for the day, doing business
somewhere outside his home. Yes, I would just sit and watch the comings and goings on the
street until it was time to go meet Edward.

I had been camped out behind the stoop for nearly an hour when Royce's door swung open.
I nearly jumped out of hiding, but managed to duck down just in time. I had kicked out and
made a bit of noise, but as Royce walked down his front steps toward the street he didn't
glance in my direction once. A book was tucked under one arm and he carried a parcel
wrapped in brown paper under the other.

He was dressed exactly has he had been the day before, crisp white shirt, dark suit, shiny
black shoes. The only change was the addition of a fedora on his head, shading his face from
the bright March sunshine. He walked briskly down the sidewalk, passing my hiding spot
without looking at me and continuing on his way.

I held my breath as he passed and then crept toward the sidewalk, watching him as he
moved quickly away from me. So far, it looked like he was heading toward Edward's house,
which was convenient for me. Unfortunately, I only really knew the route directly from
where I was standing to Edward, and any deviation would probably confuse me. I watched
him turn the corner before I jogged after him. My map was tucked in my notebook. I would
just have to pay attention to my surroundings and stop if I got too turned around.

I made sure to stay at least a half a block behind Royce at all times, weaving behind
pedestrians and staying as out of sight as possible as I followed him. He kept up his brisk
pace, never pausing to look at a storefront or seeming at all uncertain about where he was
going. I wondered if he was headed to some sort of business appointment and felt a surge of
fright as I remember that James was one of his "business" associates. Who knew what kind
of men he did business with on a regular basis?

"Courage, Bella," I said aloud, earning a sideways glance from the old man I was walking
next to. I smiled and walked ahead of him, breaking into a shuffling run to keep Royce in
sight. He turned another corner.

We were in a fairly residential area, small shops scattered at street level much like the
neighborhood where Alice and I lived. It was a little dingier than where Royce lived, and the
buildings were all shabbier and in a state of slight disrepair.
Royce had stopped in front of a door just around the corner, so I paused, hidden, to watch
him. He shifted the book underneath the brown paper package and knocked. I held my
breath, curious to finally see who Royce was visiting. He frowned impatiently and knocked
again, and seconds later the door opened. I saw a flash of long, blonde curls before he
stepped through the door and it shut behind him.

My heart skipped a beat. While I was sure there were many blonde women in Paris, I
couldn't help but hope that he had led me to Rose. But why would she be staying at a
different house? Was she staying with friends of his? I grinned at the thought that I would
have all these answers soon. As soon as Royce left I would knock on the door and see for
sure. If it was Rose, I could rescue her from her situation. She could come with me to meet
Edward and Esme and Carlisle, and we would talk about our plans to return to Forks. After
months of worrying, I would finally be able to see her and talk to her.

Royce was inside for about a half hour, and I was starting to get antsy by the time he walked
out. He wasn't carrying anything anymore. He glanced down the street in my direction and I
ducked out of sight again, my heart pounding. For a split second, it had seemed as if he saw
me. I jogged down the street toward a small café and ran in, hiding myself behind a bouquet
of flowers that sat on a high table. Less than a minute later I saw him walk past the café,
glancing around suspiciously. I held my breath until he was completely out of sight.

Cautiously, I crept back onto the street and took off for the house I had seen Royce enter. I
ran up to the door and knocked, elated that I might have finally found my missing friend.

The door swung open and I was confronted by a petite red headed girl in a grey blouse and
skirt, an white apron hanging around her waist. She looked up at me in confusion.

"Excuse me," I said with a faint smile. "I'm looking for Miss Rosalie Hale. Is she home?"

"Un moment, s'il vous plaît," she said, bobbing a small curtsy. She turned and took a few
steps into the house and called throatily, "Mademoiselle Rosalie!"

She gave me a quick wave, motioning me to step inside. "Entrez, mademoiselle."

I hesitated, but the girl gave me another insistent wave and bellowed again, "Mademoiselle!
You 'ave a visitor!"

I stepped inside and she shut the door quickly behind me. "Attendez ici, s'il vous plaît." She
started to walk toward the nearest doorway, but was interrupted by the most welcome
sound I'd heard in months.

"What did I tell you about hollering like an Indian, Giselle?" Rosalie asked, striding quickly
through the same doorway Giselle had been headed toward. "You know Royce doesn't
approve of—"

Her eyes fell on me and she gasped, one hand flying up to her mouth. We stared at each
other, completely frozen.

Rosalie looked exhausted, but well looked after. Her hair hung in perfect blonde curls down
her back, and she wore an elegant black dress that flared out into a full skirt. A gold
pendant hung around her neck and more gold clinked at her wrists.

"Bella?" she gasped. "What are you doing here? Why are you in Paris? How did you... I just..."

"You stopped writing," I said quickly, stepping forward and grabbing both her hands in my
own. "I was so worried, and then I got a letter from Alice telling me you had disappeared,
and I was frightened. I came as soon as I could get to a boat. I've been looking for you since I
got here, asking anyone I could find who might know about you."

Rose's violet eyes widened slightly, out of happiness or fear, I couldn't tell. It looked almost
as if she was about to cry. She cleared her throat and let go of my hands. "Won't you come
and sit down? The sitting room is just through here."

She turned abruptly and took off back into the house. I just stared after her for a moment,
confused about her sudden shift in mood.

"Are you coming?" she called impatiently. I jogged after her then, following the sound of her
voice. She was seated in a room right off the hall on a rigid looking armchair. When I
walked in, she gestured to an equally stiff settee and said, "Please, sit down."

I walked toward her, letting my eyes linger all over her, trying to take her in. She was here.
She was alive. She was safe. She did have purple bags under her eyes, and her normally
flawless complexion looked a little flushed, but other than that she was the same Rose who
had left me in the summer.

"I'm afraid I don't understand why you felt you needed to come," she said as soon as I sat.

"You didn't write me," I said again, still giving her a once over. And then my eyes fell on the
one part of her that had definitely changed. A distinct bump filled out the middle of her
dress. The black had disguised it in the dim light of the hall, but it was more obvious when
she was seated.

"I've been busy," she said crisply, noticing my preoccupation and moving a hand to cover
her belly.

"Rosalie," I breathed, leaning forward. "Are you... are you pregnant?"

"What does it look like, Bella?" she said, her tone cold. I flinched.

"But I don't understand...why didn't you tell me? I can help you, you don't have to do this
alone." My mind was spinning with the consequences of this unexpected news. Rosalie,
pregnant. Rosalie, a single mother. We had known a girl who got pregnant in high school.
Her parents sent her away to have the baby, and she returned months later, shamed and
shunned. My heart broke at what this would mean for Rose, especially in a town as small as
Forks.

"I'm not doing this alone," she said immediately. "Royce is going to marry me. Once he's
finished with his business here in Paris we're going to Switzerland to be married and then
we'll start our life together. He promised me a tour of Europe for our honeymoon before we
go to London to live. He's been extremely generous. I doubt you could give me anything that
he couldn't give me ten times over."

The harshness in her voice cut me, and I blinked rapidly, trying to take deep, steady
breaths. The idea of my sweet friend marrying the monster who had threatened me
repeatedly terrified me, though, so I pressed on. "Rosalie, Royce isn't a good man. You can't
marry him." I tried to put a firm edge to my tone, like I would if I was trying to reason with a
small child. "He associates with drug dealers and criminals. He told Alice and me that he
didn't even know you, that you were some cheap whore." The words were harsh, but she
needed to hear them. If she just knew what kind of man she was dealing with, I could
convince her to leave with me.

"How dare you?" she gasped. "Royce has provided everything for me; this house, jewelry,
clothing, a housekeeper."

"You've never cared about those things before," I said quietly. "Why does all that matter?
Rose, you can tell me if he's done something to make you stay. I have friends here who can
protect you until we figure out how to get home to Washington."

"Things have changed." She sat ramrod straight, one hand still on her stomach and the
other gripping the arm of the chair tightly. "I don't have anyone to look out for me. It's just
me in this world, and now it's me and my baby. Royce is going to provide for us. There's
nothing left for me in Washington."

"You have me," I whispered, stung by her words. "You have my parents."

"Your parents aren't going to approve of a baby out of wedlock," she sneered. "And don't
pretend you aren't looking at me differently right now."

When I didn't say anything, she squared her shoulders and looked me in the eye. She
looked fierce and haunted.

"What do you want me to do, Bella? Give up all of this so I can go back to that Podunk little
town and have my baby alone, no father to raise him, no degree, no job? For what? Because
you can't stand to see me living the life I was always meant to have? Because you hate that a
successful, distinguished man like Royce noticed me?"

She may have looked like Rose, but this angry, haughty woman in front of me was not my
friend. My friend had been warm and loving. We almost never fought, and if we did we
made up quickly, with a hug and a smile. My friend wasn't materialistic and she didn't care
about appearances, despite her obvious beauty.

"What's happened to you?" I asked, my eyes filling with tears.

"I learned exactly what life has to offer," she said softly. Her face kept its frozen sneer,
despite the melancholy edge to her voice. "I'm getting what I deserve."

"Rosie, please." It was a low blow, using her childhood nickname while I begged her to
listen. She pressed her lips in a thin line and took a shuddering breath. "I just want to help
you," I said again.

"I don't need your help," she said, standing swiftly. "I think you should go."

I followed her blindly back to the front door, trying to come up with anything that would
make her listen to me. She opened the door and looked me in the eye. Her eyes were blank,
emotionless.

"You need to leave, Bella. Don't come back. Stop asking about me, and don't speak to Royce
again. I'm living my own life now. You should do the same."

I walked out onto the porch, fighting tears. Before she could close the door, I stuck out my
foot to catch it and tried one last time. "I'm staying with Alice. I don't know how long I'll be
in town, but I'll be there until I leave for home. If you change your mind, you know how to
find me."

She nodded and I moved my foot. Seconds later, I was staring at the back of that
nondescript, painted door. The brass knocker leered at me, and I stumbled down the steps,
heading back in the vague direction of Edward's house.

I don't know how I got there. Tears clouded my eyes, and I'm sure I looked like a complete
mess. The only thing that kept my feet moving was the knowledge that if I didn't make it to
Edward by noon, he would come looking for me. If he found Alice alone at the apartment,
without any idea where I really was, there was no telling what he would do.

I walked into the house without knocking, as Esme always urged me to. No one was on the
first floor, so I started walking up toward Edward's garret, sobbing noisily. Pieces of my
hair had come unpinned and my nose was running. My market basket was still tucked
under my arm, thankfully. After getting in to see Rose, I hadn't even thought about it, just
clutched it reflexively.

"Bella?" Edward's voice filtered down from the floor above me, and I heard the sound of
footsteps on his rickety stair. "Is that you? It's about time you got here, I was about to start
scouring the city."

His voice was light and cheerful. I could practically hear his smile. I started to run up the
stairs, in a rush to get to him so he could hold me and tell me what to do now. In that
moment, I needed Edward like I needed air.

He appeared at the top of the second story, and I barreled into him, knocking the bag he
held out of his hands and wrapping my arms in a vice grip around his waist.

"It's nice to see you too," he laughed, patting me on the back. After a second, he realized I
was crying and he held me a little tighter. "Bella? What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

I sobbed harder, shaking my head and clutching his shirt. I was probably ruining his shirt,
but I couldn't bring myself to care.

"Bella, love, you have to talk to me. Take some deep breaths. What's wrong?" His voice had
taken on a desperate, panicky edge, and I was afraid of what he would do if I didn't give him
some sort of explanation. I pulled away and wiped my face with my sleeve. Alice would have
been horrified, but it served its purpose.

"I found Rose."

***

Chapter 14

I stood there frozen for a long moment, my hands clamped tightly around her shoulders as
Bella sobbed, her eyes squeezed shut.

"What do you mean, you found her?" I finally asked.

"Don't get mad," she moaned softly.

My teeth clenched and I concentrated on not digging into her shoulders with my fingers.
"What happened?" I ground out from between my teeth.

"I f-followed Royce this morning."

"What?!"

"Please..." she begged, her voice just a raspy whisper.

I closed my eyes and inhaled through my nose sharply, "Alright."

"He went to another house… off Boulevard St. Germain. I waited until he left and I
knocked…"
"Yes?"

Bella finally opened her eyes and met mine. Her huge dark eyes were flooded with pain.
The sight made my chest constrict.

"It…it was Rose…I saw her there…"

"Darling, what happened? What did she say to you?" I made my voice as soft as possible,
because I scarcely recognized the trembling, broken girl in front of me. Something truly
awful must have happened.

Bella couldn't get any more words out, and her sobs overtook her again. We were still
standing on the dim, dusty landing at the foot of the stairs to the garret, and it was clear to
me now that she was still too distraught to get any useful information out. I needed to calm
her down first. I slipped my arm around her shoulders and half-led, half-carried her up the
stairs. I pulled her across the room to the bed and sat, gently pulling her down next to me. I
pushed her coat from her shaking shoulders and tossed it on the chair. Her sobs hadn't
ceased and her whole body was sagging, nearly doubling over on itself. I scooted back so I
was reclining, my shoulders propped up on the headboard, and pulled her with me until
she was stretched out along side of me. She dropped her head onto my chest, fisted her
hand into my shirt and wept uncontrollably for several long minutes. There was nothing I
could do but stroke her hair and whisper reassuring nonsense words in her ear.

"Love," I murmured, "tell me what happened. I want to help."

She drew a deep shuddering breath and she choked out a few muffled words. "It was so
awful, Edward. She told me to leave, to forget all about her…that she was never coming
home…she said I was just jealous…and, Edward…oh, God, Edward….she's pregnant. Rose is
pregnant."

Bella fell apart again on the last word, sobbing as if her heart were breaking.

My blood ran cold. Of course. There had to be a reason the girl vanished. That bastard had
gotten her in trouble. But the rest didn't make any sense. Why would she be so cruel to
Bella? From everything Bella had told me of Rose and their close friendship, it didn't sound
at all like her. Could Bella have been so wrong about her all this time?

"I'm so sorry, Bella," I murmured against the top of her head as I rubbed circles on her back.
Because what else could I really say? She had come halfway around the world to find Rose
only to be shown the door. Her heart was breaking and it made mine break as well.

I don't know how long we laid there, Bella curled into my side weeping while I just held her
and comforted her, before she gradually quieted. The weeping had subsided, but she still
said nothing, she just drew occasional long shuddering breaths and worked her fist around
the fabric of my shirt. I hated how upset she was, but I couldn't deny that it felt good to have
her need me this way.
Finally she sighed deeply and spoke, her voice low and raspy.

"I don't even know what to do anymore. I came all this way, I've been trying to find her for
so long, and now…."

I squeezed her shoulders to encourage her to go on.

"I gave up everything for her. I left my parents without a word, I left school... I won't
graduate now. Oh, God, I spent all my savings! I kept thinking that once I found her, she
could pay to get us home. I don't have any money!"

The dawning realization of her situation made her voice frantic. I reached up quickly to run
my hand down her face, trying to soothe her.

"Shh, it's okay, Bella. You're not alone. You have Alice. You have Esme and Carlisle. You have
me. You won't be out on the streets. I'll take care of you. It will be alright, I promise.
Just…let's not think about the details any more today, alright? You can think about it
tomorrow, once you've had a rest."

It was true that I wanted her to calm down, get some sleep, before she started thinking
about what came next, but honestly I couldn't bear to hear her talk about it yet. With no
Rose to find, what was holding her here in Paris? She might just call her parents tomorrow
to wire her the money and get on the next ship back to the States. My chest began to
contract painfully at the thought, making me panic slightly. Anything to hold off that
horrific possibility for another day.

She softened against me and sighed deeply.

"Thank you, Edward."

"Nonsense, Bella. I don't need your thanks," I said, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

She shifted, pushed herself up until she was half-sitting, holding herself up on her arms, so
she could see my face. Her beautiful expressive brown eyes were glassy with tears and
puffy. Her skin was pale and her elegant hairstyle had completely fallen, leaving her hair
tangled and wild around her shoulders. She was absolutely lovely.

"No, you do," she said, insistently, reaching out to place her hand against my cheek. "You've
done so much for me, Edward. I just…I don't even know how to thank you."

I smiled softly at her which prompted a tiny, weak smile from her in return, and that made
me feel infinitely better. I leaned forward a little and kissed her gently. Bella leaned into
me, kissing me back. I was terrified of what came next between us, terrified of losing her,
but when she kissed me like this, all those concerns faded away. I could only feel Bella.
We tangled together for an interminable time, her hands sliding through my hair, my
fingers skimming down her face, our lips pressing, nipping, tasting. Then I felt Bella's
fingers slip down my neck to my chest. There was a rustle of movement between us and I
realized that Bella was unbuttoning my shirt. The thinking part of my brain knew that this
was all wrong, that she didn't want this, at least not now, not like this. But then she freed
the third button and her warm little hands slid under the fabric, against my abdomen and I
was lost. Her fingers made quick work of the last two buttons and then she was pushing my
shirt back and off my shoulders. I shrugged free of it and moaned, rolling us so that she was
under me, kissing her with all the desire and urgency I felt.

My hands were acting of their own accord, grasping the back of her calf, pulling her leg up,
pushing her skirt aside so I could run my fingers up her leg to where her stocking ended
and her silky skin began. She gasped at the sensation and I left her mouth, moving to kiss
her neck, the curve of her jaw, the hollow at the base of her throat. I shifted back to kiss her
lips as my fingers landed on the tiny pearl buttons of her blouse, and I paused, needing her
to tell me this was alright.

"Bella?"

She froze underneath me.

"Oh, God…" Bella moaned, suddenly jerking herself to the side, away from me.

"Bella, stop," I rasped, reaching out for her, trying to hold her against me. My thinking was
clouded but I knew this had just gone wrong and I couldn't let her panic and run away.

"No," she cried, rearing off the bed, pushing her skirt down, her eyes frantic. "No, no, no.
This is the price, isn't it?"

"Price? What price?" I sat up, raking a hand through my hair, struggling to keep up with
where she was going, my heart still pounding its way out of my chest.

"You said you'd help me, that you'd take care of me, but at what cost, Edward? Is this how
you want me to repay you?" Her face was twisted and she looked anywhere but at me. I
flinched as if her words had physically struck me, because that's how it felt.

"Bella, no…"

"This place," she went on, scrambling for her shoes that she'd lost when we'd sat down on
the bed, "it makes me do things that aren't…me. You make me do things that aren't me. I had
a life before all this!" She waved her hand absently at the skylight and the Paris skyline
beyond it. "And then I came here and it's like I forgot everything that was ever important to
me."

She snatched her coat up off the chair and stuffed her arms roughly in the sleeves. Her
hands were shaking. I couldn't believe what she was saying, her hurt, her anger…at me. I
felt sick, in real physical pain. All I could do was sit there and let her spill it all out on me. I
couldn't seem to catch up, I couldn't figure out how we'd gotten here from where we were
just minutes ago. She was about to walk out of here, I could feel it, and yet I couldn't find the
words to make her stay. The horrible constriction in my chest wouldn't let me find any
words at all.

"Well, it's not going to happen to me, I swear it! I just need to get out of here…somewhere
where I can think. And I need to…to get things back on track…" She was shaking her head,
not even really talking to me anymore. She found her handbag where she'd left it by the
door.

"Bella, please don't go." It was all I could squeeze out around the painful weight in my chest.

She shook her head absently, as if to clear it. "I have to," she whispered. Then she was
through the door and her light footsteps were clattering down the garret stairs.

I sat hunched on the bed where she'd left me, staring at the door. I could scarcely breathe
around this tightness in my chest, this hollow emptiness that still felt like it would crush
me. Her words, what she'd accused me of…she had to know it wasn't like that. Didn't she?
Couldn't she tell by now how I felt about her? Couldn't she feel that I loved her?

Loved her?

I sat up, stunned by the emotion that settled so surely around me. I loved Bella. Yes, I did. It
didn't make any sense. We'd only known each other a fortnight, we lived across the world
from each other. But none of that made it less true. I loved her.

She was going to do whatever she felt she needed to now, but suddenly I knew I couldn't let
her leave without telling her. She had to know how I felt. I had to at least do that much.

I lurched up off the bed, snatching my shirt off the floor, wondering how much of a head
start she'd gotten. I lost track of time sitting there wallowing in my misery. Would she go
back to Alice's? More than likely. I threw myself down all three flights of stairs two at a
time, nearly breaking my neck twice.

I raced through the streets, only dimly aware from the glances of the people I passed that I
hadn't fully buttoned up my shirt. I was completely unkempt, running like a madman
through St. Germain towards Alice's. I didn't care. Reaching the door of her building, I
braced myself on the frame, gasping for air as I pressed the buzzer for her apartment.
There was no answer. I tried again and waited. Nothing. It was a Saturday, so Alice wasn't
working, but that didn't necessarily mean she'd be home. I turned away from the door,
slumping against the frame momentarily in defeat, staring blankly up Rue de Seine. If she
wasn't here, where would she go?

"Ah! You are looking for one of the Mademoiselles, yes?"

I turned to look over my shoulder, still heaving with every breath, a bead of sweat sliding
down my forehead and dripping off to the ground. The front door was open and a woman
stood there, looking at me expectantly. She was an older woman, too old for the tight, sexy
black dress she was wearing on a Saturday afternoon. She had an empty basket over her
arm, like she was going to the market…wearing that dress…with hair that color. She was
smiling saucily at me, cocking one eyebrow.

"Pardonnez-moi ?" I asked reflexively.

"Is it Mademoiselle Alice? Non, Mademoiselle Bella, I think, oui?"

"You know Bella?"

"Oui, oui. She lives next door to me with petite Alice. They are charming, non? I am Madame
Beauvais. "

"Enchanté," I replied automatically. "Have you seen her?"

"Mademoiselle Bella? Non, not since this morning. You are her young man?"

I smiled in spite of myself and nodded. "Yes, I am. If you see her, can you tell her I came by?
It's Edward."

"Edward," she said it slowly, trying it out. Then she nodded, apparently satisfied that my
name suited. "I will tell her. Would you like to wait inside for her?"

I shook my head. "No, thank you. I need to keep looking for her."

"Ah, d'accord. Good luck, my handsome boy!"

Then she patted my cheek lightly with her gloved hand and brushed past me too close, in a
way that I almost would have called flirtatious, before she sauntered off down Rue de Seine.

I leaned against the door for another long moment, exhausted and defeated. I had no idea
where to look next. If worst came to worst, I could always just wait here in front of her
building. She had to come back eventually. But I desperately wanted to be doing something,
not just sitting and waiting. I cast my mind back through our short acquaintance, looking
for any clue as to where she'd go if she wasn't home and wasn't with me. And then I knew.

I shot up off the door frame, racing down Rue de Seine towards the river. She would be
there, I was sure of it. The afternoon was glorious, the first really warm sunny day of spring,
and the streets were crowded with people the closer I got to the river. It was worse on the
Pont Neuf and it seemed for a time that the closer I got, the slower I moved. I stumbled
down the stone steps and sprinted past ambling pedestrians and happy lovers until I was
racing through the tiny green triangle of Square du Vert-Galant.
There she was, right at the tip, like I knew she would be, leaning on the railing, looking
down at the water. The soft spring breeze blew off the water and gently ruffled her tangled
hair, swirling it around her slim shoulders.

When I was within arms' reach of her, I spoke. "Bella."

She spun to face me, her whole face collapsing in sadness, tears beginning again as we
locked eyes.

"Edward, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it…any of it."

"It's alright, Bella," I held up my hand to stop her.

She shook her head vigorously, "No, it wasn't. What I said to you…what I accused you of,
that was awful. I started it. And then I said the most awful things to you. It was just that
seeing Rose today, what happened to her…and then I was worried that I was making all the
same mistakes…" She was starting to cry too hard to speak.

I closed the distance between us, grasping her hands between mine. "Bella, don't. I should
have stopped it. You were in no shape to make that kind of choice today, I knew that." I
dropped my head and chuckled a little. "It's just that when you touched me like that I had a
hard time remembering what I should be doing."

She closed her eyes, dropping her head back and moaning. Apparently I was making it
worse.

"I'm sorry," I amended quickly, "I don't want to make you feel bad. I do want you, rather
desperately, but I know you're not willing to do that…"

"That's just it," she interrupted softly, squeezing my fingers. "I am willing. Or at least I want
to be. I…I want you, too." She ducked her head and blushed. "But, Edward, how can I? How
can we? You make me so happy. I just want to be with you. But how can we get involved so
deeply when I'm leaving? I don't belong here. I have a life…"

"It doesn't matter," I said, the resolution forming in my mind as I spoke. But I knew it was
right. I knew what was most important. "Look, I want to be with you, too. More than
anything. If you're going home, then I'll come, too."

She blinked once, then just stared for a long moment. "What?"

"I'll come with you. Back to America. I can paint anywhere, and what's important is that
we're together. Bella, I love you. I'll do whatever it takes to be with you."

She said nothing, she just looked at me, her eyes wide, disbelieving. The same insecurity
reared its head again, that I was just a fling for her, a pleasant distraction for her in Paris
before she returned home to …Jacob. His name burned like fire in my brain.
"You would do that for me?" she finally whispered.

"I would do anything for you."

"Edward…" her eyes softened and her head tipped to the side. Then without warning she
launched herself at me, her arms locking around my neck, her face buried in my shoulder. I
caught her up against me, squeezing hard.

"So it's alright then?" I murmured against her hair.

"Oh, God, so much better than alright."

I chuckled softly, relief flooding my system, before I released her a bit, letting her settle
back down on her feet. I reached up and held her face between my hands before I leaned in
and kissed her softly. Bella kissed back readily, grasping my face in her hands, too.

"You would really come home with me?"

"I'd follow you anywhere, Bella."

She gave a nervous, watery chuckle through her tears. "You might rethink that if you saw
Forks."

I shrugged and smiled, wrapping my arms around her waist. "Let's worry about the details
later, shall we? Today has been hard enough for you. Just be with me for a little while,
alright?"

She nodded wearily and smiled. A couple on a bench behind us chose that moment to get up
and relinquish their seats, so I pulled her over and we sat down. I dropped my arm around
her shoulders and she rested her head on my chest, our free hands joined loosely. It was
late afternoon, nearly sunset, the pink and orange streaking across the sky reflected back
from the Seine, shimmering and fracturing. We didn't say much, we just sat and watched
the colors shift and change as the sky grew dark over our heads.

I was trying to follow my own advice and think about nothing but the feel of Bella curled
against me, but my thoughts wouldn't behave. Honestly, I didn't want to leave Paris. I loved
this city. It was home to me and had been for five years. But when I tried to imagine living
here while Bella was halfway around the world, my heart stopped and Paris lost all of its
charms. There would be nothing in Paris to love if Bella wasn't in it with me, I realized that
now.

The future spread out before me as one long blank page. I never had a plan for the future
before, but this was different, and a little frightening. But losing Bella was more terrifying,
so I knew I'd do whatever it took to keep her with me.
The afternoon had been warm and soft, but as the light faded, the breeze off the Seine grew
cool and I felt Bella shiver against me.

"Let's get you inside, love. You haven't eaten all day," I murmured, kissing the top of her
head.

"I need to tell Alice about Rose," she said, her voice tired and pained.

"Esme's having people over tonight. I'm sure Alice will be there. Come home with me and
we'll find her there."

Bella sighed and nodded. I stood and pulled her to her feet, wrapping my arm around her
waist. She rested her head on my shoulder and we made our way slowly out of the park. I
realized with a slight smile that we'd become one of those couples, the ones I always
scowled at cynically when they lingered on the park benches, so clearly lost in each other.
But now I understood. I'd happily spend the rest of my life back on that bench, lost in Bella.
***

Chapter 15

I would do anything for you.

Edward led me gently through the streets of Paris, still holding my hand.

I love you.

I couldn't make sense of the jumble of emotions I was feeling. Sadness, elation, panic,
tenderness, anger, confusion. Everything mashed together in an incomprehensible blend,
and all I could really do was follow Edward blindly and try to focus on the feel of his hand in
mine.

I would follow you anywhere.

Unbelievable as it seemed, I was sure he was being sincere. There was no other way to
interpret the fervent gleam in his eyes, the hopeful set of his mouth. Despite the appalling
way I had treated him earlier, he had chased me through the city to comfort me. He took the
blame for my horrible behavior, even though both of us knew it wasn't his fault. He was
willing to leave Paris, beautiful Paris, electric Paris... for Forks. For me.

I watched him as we walked. The setting sun lit up the varying shades of red, gold, and
brown in his copper hair. He looked like a pagan god, practically glowing in the late
afternoon light. Then he glanced down at me and smiled, and I was done for. My eyes were
red and aching, my hair was a mess, and my nose was stuffed from sobbing for so long, but I
couldn't help but smile back.

I barely noticed when we got to Edward's house. It was early enough that only a few people
were seated in the large room with the piano just off the entryway. A record player was
playing something lilting and sweet softly in the background, and the atmosphere seemed
much more low-key than a night at Esme's usually entailed. I knew that in the next hour the
house would fill to the brim with eccentric intellectuals and artists, and the noise level
would skyrocket, but for now it was practically sedate.

Edward led me around the corner into the kitchen. Esme was leaning against the counter,
standing in between Carlisle's legs. He held her face in his hands, gazing down at her with a
soft smile. They were talking in low voices, but stopped speaking when we entered the
kitchen.

"Esme," Edward said quietly, "I'm sorry to interrupt, but has Alice arrived yet? Bella needs
to speak to her right away."

Carlisle turned around and Esme arched an eyebrow and frowned. "What's wrong, ma
chère?"

She crossed the kitchen and pulled me from Edward's grasp. Wrapping her arms around
me, she pulled me into a motherly hug.

"Carlisle, my love, can you fetch Alice? She's with Pablo in the music room. Tell her Bella
and Edward have arrived, and see if she can get Jasper and Emmett to come with her as
well."

"Everyone's here already?" Edward asked. I allowed myself to sag slightly into Esme's chest,
inhaling her sweet perfume. I didn't want to face Alice, to tell her that everything we had
done in the last two weeks had been completely pointless. I was also a little afraid of what
Jasper would say. Alice practically had to bully him into helping us, and even then he had
told us several times that if Rose didn't want to be found we shouldn't be looking for her.

"Yes, Emmett just arrived and Alice and Jasper arrived not more than an hour ago. What's
happened?"

"Things have...changed," Edward said. He sounded as if he was struggling to keep his voice
level. I felt his hand rub soothing circles on my back, and it struck me how many different
meanings his words could have. We were both irrevocably changed: my reasons for staying
and going had been ripped away and rearranged, and neither of knew what would happen
next. Yes, things had certainly changed.

Carlisle walked back into the kitchen then, Alice, Jasper and Emmett in tow. I pulled away
from Esme and turned to face them. Alice gave a little gasp, probably horrified at the state
of my hair. I gave her a halfhearted smile and stepped back toward Edward.
"I think we should have this conversation upstairs," Edward said firmly. "Thank you,
Carlisle."

"Of course, dear boy," he answered, his eyes traveling between us. "Is there anything we can
get for you? My coffee would only make matters worse, I'm afraid, but I do have some tea
for special occasions."

Edward gave him a weak chuckle and Esme grinned. "How about it, love?" Edward asked
me. "Real English tea. You could use something hot."

I nodded, and Esme started bustling around the kitchen.

"You go ahead," she instructed, calling over her shoulder. "I will bring you something to eat,
and Carlisle will make his tea."

The group of us made our way up to Edward's garret, Edward still laughing quietly. "I know
you must be hungry, but it may have been better to stop at a café before we came home.
Esme can't cook to save her life."

Alice tsked and looped an arm around my waist. "A woman doesn't need to know how to
cook in this day and age, Edward. Don't be so old-fashioned."

He turned on the lamps and pulled out his battered kitchen chairs. The boys each took a
chair while Alice perched on the bed and patted the space between her feet, gesturing for
me to join her.

"Luckily I always carry a comb," she muttered, starting to pick at my knotted hair and pull
stray hairpins out. "What happened today, Bella?"

Edward stiffened, and Jasper and Emmett turned to face him. He opened his mouth to say
something, but Esme and Carlisle came in with a tray of bread, a small jar of preserves, and
a teapot. Several tea cups were perched upside down on the tray as well, and Carlisle
served the tea while Esme spread preserves on a crusty piece of bread and passed it over to
me.

"I suppose there's no more delaying it," I said. I set the bread on my saucer and put it on the
ground, clasping my hands in front of me. Alice's fingers ran comfortingly through my hair,
smoothing tangles. I sat in the middle of Edward's garret, surrounded by people who had
been strangers just two weeks ago, people who had come together and helped me when I
had no one else to turn to. They stared at me, waiting.

"I found Rose today."

I proceeded to tell them everything. I told them about following Royce, about the house off
St. Germain, about Rosalie and the baby, and how she had sent me away. Alice's hands
never left my hair, and Edward kept his eyes locked on my face the whole time. I heard
myself tell the story as if I was someone else, detached and emotionless. I didn't think I had
tears left to cry.

After I finished my story, there was silence for a moment.

"Cette fille pauvre," Esme murmured. "You are sure she meant it, then? That she wanted
you to leave and never return?"

"She certainly seemed serious," I answered. I turned to face Alice. Her hands had finally
stilled, and she was staring down at the floor. I stood up and wrapped my arms around her.
"Thank you, Alice. I don't know what I would have done if you weren't here. I promise I'll
pay you back. I'm afraid I don't know exactly what I'm going to do now. I have to see about
speaking to my parents and..." I trailed off and looked back at Edward.

His face was twisted into a sad smile, but he was still staring at me with determination and
...love. There was no mistaking it now that I had a word for the emotion that filled his eyes.

"Well, I suppose we don't need this then," Jasper growled, tossing a packet of papers down
on the table.

"What's that?"

"That's everything I could find on Royce King, formerly of London, England. I finally heard
back from some of my better sources yesterday. Investor, philanthropist, and master of the
back alley deal. James LaFave isn't the worst of his business associates either. Half the thugs
and gangs in this city have had dealings with him at some point since he got to Paris in
1946. He's got a couple of gendarmes on his payroll too. If Rose doesn't want to come
willingly, I doubt there's anything we can do to get her away from him. I'm..." he seemed to
struggle for a moment, and then his permanent scowl softened into an apologetic frown.
"I'm sorry girls. We tried. Every man chooses his own path, and sometimes our friends go
down roads we can't follow."

In that moment, I saw traces of what Alice always gushed about when she returned from
her days and nights spent with Jasper. Despite the fact that he was rough and somewhat
untrusting, he cared about Alice, and it seemed that he cared about me, too. He really did
have hidden depths.

"Thank you, Jasper," I said. "Thank you for everything you've done. You've been such a
great help. And Emmett, you've been wonderful."

"Don't mention it," he said, smiling just enough so that his dimples showed. "I wish there
was more we could do. I don't like the idea of a sweet kid like your friend wrapped up with
a man like Royce, but Jasper's right. She would have to come willingly, or we'd never get her
away. Maybe she'll change her mind. You never know." Despite his words, he didn't sound
hopeful.
I gave him a half-hearted smile. "Maybe."

I stifled a yawn, but Esme saw it anyway.

"Poor dear, you're exhausted. Eat your bread and jam, go on. Come children, let's leave
them to it. Come!" She started herding Jasper and Emmett out of their seats, handing her
teacup to Carlisle and nudging him with her hands. They followed her instructions
immediately, wearing the same tolerant and slightly amused face that Edward always wore
when she bossed him around. Not one of the people in this room was related to her, either
by blood or marriage, but she had taken all of us under her wing. Even through my
exhaustion and hopelessness, I was a little in awe of Esme. "Alice, darling, come with me.
We are neglecting our guests!"

I gave Alice one more squeeze and she hugged me back. "I'm sorry, Bella," she whispered. "I
wish things had turned out differently. You came all this way."

"Hey, what would my life be like without Alice Brandon, future designer of the latest
couture?" I asked, smiling in spite of myself. "I'll figure it out, Alice. Don't worry."

Once Edward and I were alone I stood up and carried my bread and tea to the table. Edward
wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me onto his lap, burying his face in my hair.
We sat there, not speaking or moving, for a long while. I didn't know what there was to say.

Edward's bold promise scared me. I couldn't picture his handsome face among the people
in my hometown. They were shades of green and grey, and he was vibrant crimson and
gold, a splash of color that stood out miles away. He would never fit in. My father would
mistrust him immediately, first because he wasn't American and then because he didn't
have a conventional career. My mother would probably love him, but she'd never speak up
if my father had already decided Edward was unsuitable. In any event, bringing Edward
back to Forks with me would smother the things that were good and different about him.
He said he could paint anywhere, but I didn't think he could paint happily anywhere.
Sometime between my arrival and that moment in Edward's garret, he had come to define
Paris for me, and I couldn't picture him away from the city.

I noticed he had pulled back and was tracing shapes on my spine. From the corner of my
eye I saw him staring at my face. I turned to look at him straight on and he gave a little sigh.

"What are you thinking?" he whispered.

"Just thinking about my parents... and home."

He nodded and nudged my saucer with the bread and jam toward me. "Eat," he instructed.

I sighed and took a big bite. The preserves were almost too sweet, but Edward was right, I
hadn't eaten all day. I devoured the entire piece in less than a minute. He laughed, low and
sweet.

"You have some jam," he swiped his thumb over the corner of my mouth, "right there." I
turned my face so he could reach easier.

"Did you get it all?" I asked, running my tongue over my lips. He stared for a second, green
eyes focused on my mouth.

"I think there's a little more." He leaned in and brushed his lips against mine. I sighed and
leaned into him, letting myself get swept along in the feel of his kiss. It was familiar and
warm, and even though kissing him was what spurred our disastrous afternoon, I couldn't
help but want more.

He groaned and leaned back. I blinked, confused by the sudden lack of contact.

"Bella?" he said uncertainly. "Can we talk a little? A lot happened today."

I nodded slowly, feeling my cheeks heat slightly. Of course he didn't want to get carried
away again. After my outburst this afternoon he was understandably cautious. Even though
kissing him was comfortable and reassuring, I had to admit he was probably right to want
to talk for a while. I stood up, kicking my heels off next to the bed and sinking into his
warm, soft quilt.

"What did you want to talk about?"

"Tell me more about your family. We've been so focused on finding Rose I feel like I don't
know enough about you. I want to know everything."

"Oh, is that all?" I said faintly, searching for something about my humdrum life until this
point that he would find interesting. I swung my feet up on the bed and he came to sit at the
end of it, lifting one of my stocking feet into his lap. "I'm an only child, but I think you knew
that."

He nodded and ran his thumbs firmly down the arch of my foot. I flexed my toes and he
smiled.

"My parents are no-nonsense, I guess," I continued, closing my eyes and enjoying the
sensation of his hands massaging my tired feet. "My father is protective. He's lived in the
same small town his entire life. He's the police chief now. My mother grew up in Arizona,
but her family moved to Forks when she was in high school. She never left. I think she
considered it once, before she married my father, but she never talks about it. When I was
younger I always thought she had had a tragic love affair and that my father and Forks were
some sort of consolation prize. It was probably just my imagination though."

I paused, remembering my mother's frequent bouts of melancholy during my childhood.

She loved me and my father, but it always seemed like she was destined for more. When I
was younger, she was always bursting with color and energy, loud and vivacious. As the
years went on, it seemed like the life was sapped from her slowly but surely. These days she
was quiet and reserved, and she almost always deferred to my father when they disagreed.

"When I left, I wrote a note to them and left it in my dorm room at school, and I sent them a
letter right after I arrived, so if they haven't received it yet they likely will soon," I sighed,
pulling myself back to the present. "They'll be worried sick. I should call them and let them
know I'm okay. I have no idea how to make international calls, though."

"Do you think..." He stopped, appearing to choose his words carefully. "Do you think you'll
want to leave straight away? I have a little money saved, and I could always ask Esme and
Carlisle—"

"No, absolutely not," I interrupted. "I can't ask for any more help from any of you, you've all
been so generous already. I need to do this on my own."

He pursed his lips and switched to my other foot. "You don't have to be so stubborn. I want
to make sure you're taken care of."

"I'm not being stubborn," I insisted. "I just want to be able to rely on myself. I'm grateful for
everything you've done already, but I can't... I just can't end up like Rose. Maybe if she
didn't feel so dependent on Royce she would have come with me."

"And maybe she would have said the exact same thing." His tone wasn't accusatory, but it
still made me defensive.

"Maybe, but that doesn't change the fact that I don't want that life. I never have." He stayed
silent, but his hands wound around my ankles, smoothing the wrinkles in my silk stockings.

"I should get a job," I mused after a while, staring out of the skylight. The street lamps were
lit now, and the city was glowing. "I've never had a job before. It might be fun."

He snorted and dropped my foot, crawling up the bed to collapse on his side next to me.

"I doubt that very much."

"I'm practically a college graduate, I was going to get a job soon anyway. Besides, you have a
job, and it doesn't seem so awful."

"Yes, but I don't have the kind of job that most blokes do," he corrected. He laughed, but it
was humorless. "I'm a bit of a lay-about I suppose. At least that's probably what my father
would say. He's a barrister."

It was the first time he had ever told me anything real about his family. "Probably? Don't
you know what he'd say?"
He closed his eyes and shook his head. "I haven't spoken to him since I came to Paris."

I waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't, so I took a deep breath and softly asked, "When
was that?"

"Five years ago. I was eighteen."

My mouth fell open a little and I exhaled shakily. Edward was always so closemouthed
about his family, I suppose I should have known there was some sort of conflict involved.
But to move to another country and not speak to his father for five years was beyond the
scope of the conflict I had imagined.

"And your mother? Have you spoken to her?"

He reached out for me and pulled me into his side, running his fingers up and down my
bare arm. "She writes every couple of weeks or so. She knows I'm in Paris, and she has
Carlisle's address because he's my father's brother, so she relies on him to pass on her
messages."

"Do you write her back?"

Nuzzling my neck for a second, he sighed. "Love, I don't really want to talk about this right
now."

I pulled away and turned to face him. "That's not fair. You get to ask me questions about my
life and my family, but I can't ask about yours?"

"That's not what I said," he replied, narrowing his eyes slightly. "I just said I don't want to
talk about this right now."

"Fine," I huffed, suddenly grumpy again. I tried to sit up, but he held me still.

"Don't go," he pleaded. "I promise we'll talk about it soon, alright?"

I nodded slowly and settled back down, propping my head up with one hand.

"What kind of job do you think you'd like?" he asked after a few seconds.

"I don't know," I answered. "I don't suppose it matters very much. I just need to make
enough money to pay for my passage on a ship and then a train from New York to Seattle.
What do you think I should do?"

"It would be highly convenient if you could sing or skat," he said hopefully. "I'm sure I could
convince Felix and Laurent that we need a singer. We split the fee that the bar pays us
equally."
I laughed. "Sorry, I'm tone deaf. I always wanted to learn how to play the piano, but my
parents could never afford the lessons."

"I could teach you," he offered. He pulled my left hand out in front of our faces and
examined it. "You have rather tiny hands though, that might make things more difficult." He
put our palms together and extended his fingers out as wide as they would go.

"Oh, sure," I complained. "When you compare them to yours they look miniscule."

He laced his fingers through mine and raised the back of my hand to his lips. "I wouldn't
want it any other way."

The look on his face made the butterflies in my stomach start fluttering again.

"Stop that," I scolded.

"Stop what?" The mischievous half grin on his face told me he knew exactly what I was
talking about.

"Distracting me."

"Am I distracting you?" He smiled a little wider and glanced up at me through his eyelashes.
He had longer eyelashes than I did. "I'm sorry."

"No you're not," I laughed, then yawned widely. "I'm sorry. I should probably go home so I
can sleep."

"Probably." He sounded reluctant, and far from letting me go, he pulled me closer to his
chest.

"You're making it very difficult to get up and go home." My voice was muffled against his
chest.

"What if you didn't go home tonight?" he whispered. "You could...you could stay."

"Here? In your room?"

"Yes, here. With me. Nothing has to happen, I just... I want to be close to you tonight. Will
you stay?"

I could feel my cheeks heating up at the thought of sharing a bed with Edward for an entire
night. Cuddling or kissing for short bursts was one thing, but to lay wrapped in his arms, to
wake up to his face next to mine...

"Okay," I said quietly.

"Really?"

"You sound surprised. Do you want me to stay or not?" I attempted to keep my voice light
and teasing, even though my heart was pounding.

"Please stay," he said immediately.

"I'm going to need something to wear to bed. I can't sleep in a skirt and blouse." I didn't
meet his eyes, suddenly wondering what Edward would be wearing.

He jumped up and walked over to a small chest of drawers. "I think I have a shirt in here
somewhere that matches my sleep pants."

While he dug through his clothes, I looked around the room. I had been here many times in
the last two weeks, but every time I saw something new. Mostly it was paintings or
keepsakes from his life in the city. I hadn't noticed before, but there was a distinct lacking
of other people in this room. No photos, no portraits, no letters sitting out. Just Edward.

He cleared his throat and I looked back toward him. "I found it," he said with a sheepish
smile. "I'll just step outside so you can change."

He handed me a light blue men's pajama top. It had long sleeves and buttons down the
front.

"I hope you don't mind, but I'm going to, er... wear the bottoms."

I blushed again and shook my head. "No, that's okay. I'll get changed quickly."

He nodded and walked out onto the landing. I heard him go down the stairs, and wondered
where exactly he was going. I sat there for an immeasurable moment before I realized that
he would be coming back, and that meant I had to change.

I quickly shucked my skirt and blouse, folding them neatly over the back of Edward's old
armchair. I would have to wear them in the morning and I didn't think Edward would have
an iron to press them with. Buttoning the shirt all the way down, I shivered slightly. The
garret was drafty, and the shirt only reached halfway down my thigh.

I was just unfastening my garters when I heard a noise on the stairway. I was standing on
one foot, half bent over, my stockings bunched in one hand when Edward walked in. He
didn't look up at first, just walked in and closed the door. When he turned back to me, his
eyes grew as big as saucers and he turned around immediately.

"I'm sorry," he stuttered. "Did you need more time?"

"What's the matter, Edward, never seen a girl in garters before?" I joked. It was easier to
tease him than to embrace the utter mortification I felt right then. My legs were skinny and
pale, and I was drowning in the oversized pajama top. It was also the most exposed I had
ever been in front of a man before.

"Of course I have," he said defensively, and my smile slipped. Of course he had. Probably ten
or twenty. He was handsome and smart and talented. He had probably done this countless
times. A lump formed in my throat and I yanked off my other stocking quickly, tossing both
stockings and garter to the chair with my clothing.

"Bella," he said, turning with an apologetic look on his face. "I didn't mean it like that."

I climbed into bed and pulled the quilt over my head, blocking out the weak light from the
lamps. I knew he wasn't being hurtful on purpose, but we had shifted gears so many times
this evening, from sad to comforting to angry to loving... I was exhausted and confused. I
didn't want to listen to more explanations, more apologies.

I heard him rustling around in the room, and then the light went out and everything was
dark. The other side of the quilt was pulled back and the mattress bounced as Edward slid
in next to me. His cold fingers caressed my waist, and he settled his head in the crook of my
shoulder.

"Don't be angry," he breathed. The tip of his nose ran down the outer shell of my ear, and I
shivered. "There's only you, Bella. I love you."

"I'm not angry," I whispered back. I turned into his chest and felt his arm wrap securely
around me.

I couldn't say those words back to him yet, no matter how much I wished I could. So much
was uncertain about our future together. Would he come back to America with me? Could I
let him leave behind his family in London and his life in Paris? I didn't know how long I
could put off making those decisions, but I consoled myself with the knowledge that I
couldn't decide tonight. I allowed Edward to cradle me to his bare chest and focused on the
steady beat of his heart and the rise and fall of his chest. Within minutes, I was asleep.
***

Chapter 16

Warm. Soft. Flowers.

I woke up slowly, only aware that I felt good…brilliant, in fact. Then there was a soft sigh
and a rustle in the bedclothes next to me and I remembered why I felt so good. Bella was
next to me, curled up against me. She stayed the night. And I loved her.

The long, convoluted events of yesterday fell into place in my memory like dominos falling
over. Bella found Rose, and Rose sent her away. Bella's heartbreak, that complete disaster
back here at the garret, racing through the streets to find her, the park, the sunset…I love
you.

Bella stirred, turning her head further into my shoulder, nuzzling her face into my neck. I
kept my eyes closed, tightening my arm around her, pressing my lips against her hair,
smelling flowers again. She stayed the night. I asked her to and she did. After the hell of
yesterday, she looked so raw and emotional and wrecked that I just couldn't bear the
thought of taking her back to her place and leaving her alone there. So I asked her to stay
and she stayed, which led to this: one of the most magnificent mornings in recent memory.

She was still asleep, I could tell from her slow, deep breathing. I was grateful. She needed all
the rest she could get after yesterday, when it felt like our worlds tilted on their axis. Our
world. Because there was only one now, ours together. The thought of that made my chest
swell and my breathing grow shallow. Everything was different now.

Bella sighed and it almost sounded like she was murmuring, soft little indistinguishable
words against my skin. I couldn't make anything out. Her hand was splayed across my chest
and I felt her fingers tighten slightly. She was waking up. Having her in my bed, in my arms,
was indescribable. I knew that yesterday, when we'd gotten carried away and clothes were
taken off; it was all too much at the worst possible time. But then later in the park she said
she wanted to…she wanted me. More than anything I didn't want to rush her, to push her
for something she wasn't ready for. But the idea that she was even considering being with
me like that was just…

I had no intention of trying to push her boundaries this morning, but I figured maybe she
wouldn't mind a little kissing as she woke up. I rolled to my side and dipped my head to her
neck, kissing her soft skin. She groaned and her head tipped back. I smiled and traced my
way up to her ear. I opened my eyes, wanting to watch her wake up and found myself
confronted with one watery, rheumy yellow eye staring balefully at me: Debussy.

My eyes shot fully open and I picked up my head. That mangy cat was sitting on Bella's
pillow, on her hair, glaring at me with his one eye, his mangled ear twitching aggressively.
He growled at me, a low, nasty rumble. I growled back.

"Look, you," I hissed at him, "You may have fooled her but you don't fool me, you nasty little
bugger. Now get out of here before I fling you out of the window!"

"Edward?" Bella's voice was low and groggy. "Who are you talking to?"

"No one, love. Just the cat." I turned my face down to her, smiling at her half-opened, sleepy
eyes, her slightly flushed cheeks. I was dipping my head in to kiss her good morning when
her eyes shot open.

"Debussy?"
She craned her head around, half twisting out of my arms. Debussy stood up off her hair
and stretched lazily, purring loudly. "Hey, sweetie," she cooed, scratching him behind the
ears, rolling fully away from me to wrap him in her arms. I bloody hated that cat.

I decided to try again. I slipped my arms around Bella's waist and pulled myself up against
her back. "Good morning," I murmured, nuzzling into her hair.

She cast a small nervous smile back over her shoulder at me. "Good morning."

"Sleep well?"

"Yes, actually," she answered, "Surprisingly well. Thank you for letting me stay, Edward."

"I should be thanking you. I can't imagine a better way to wake up."

She blushed a bit and ducked her head. I kissed her shoulder and pulled her in tighter. She
let me hold her there for a moment and it was bliss. Even that wretched cat hopped off the
bed and let us have our moment.

"How are you feeling?" I asked her, running a hand up and down her arm.

She sighed heavily. "Better. But drained. Does that make sense?"

"Of course. Yesterday was hell for you, love. But I'm glad you're feeling a bit better. Are you
hungry? I could go down stairs and find us something to eat."

"Not just yet, please. I want to stay like this for a while." She flushed again, embarrassed by
her admission.

"Bella, I would be happy to stay right here for the rest of my life," I told her sincerely.

We lay on our sides, her back tucked up against my chest for a long time. I ran my hand up
and down her arm, tracing the shape of her shoulder, the delicate bones of her hand and
fingers. I watched the way the hazy cool morning sunlight coming through the skylight over
the bed made her pale skin glow. It picked out the subtle red highlights in her hair and
made her eyelashes cast blurry little shadows on her cheeks.

"You're so lovely," I murmured.

She laughed softly. "After all that crying yesterday I'm sure I must be a wreck."

"No, not at all," I reassured her, because it was absolutely true. She was lovely. I picked up
her hand from the quilt, running my fingers around her long tapering delicate ones. "Look
at your little hand, so beautiful."

"You make me feel that way," she whispered.

"Bella?"

"Yes?"

"Can I draw you?"

Her eyebrows drew together slightly. "What, right now? I'm a mess!"

I raised myself up on one elbow so I could reach up and smooth the hair out of her face.

"You're beautiful," I said softly. "I want to remember this moment forever, you here in my
bed with me. So…can I draw it? Draw you?"

She met my gaze and her whole face softened.

"Yes."

I smiled broadly before dipping in to kiss her quickly. "Brilliant."

I scrambled out of bed, digging through a stack of paper on the table by the door until I
found a decent sized piece of clean bristol, and I found a piece of willow charcoal that
wasn't too pulverized near the bottom of my bag. Grabbing an old palette to use as a
drawing surface, I climbed back on the bed and settled myself cross-legged at the foot of it.

"What do you want me to do?" Bella asked, propping herself up on one elbow. I looked up at
her and my heart thudded in my chest. My pajama top was huge on her and it had shifted to
the side, leaving one shoulder just barely peeking out. Her hair was a glorious dark chaotic
tumble around her pale little face and down her back. The quilt had slipped to her feet and
the bed sheet was a tangle of crisp white folds around her legs, stopping at her waist. The
pale morning sun flooded in through the skylight behind her, illuminating her softly from
behind, making her glow. She was heart-stoppingly beautiful.

"Don't move," I finally muttered. "You're perfect."

She blushed and smiled at me, but she held still and I went to work. I traced the shape of
her shoulder and back first, then I laid in a swath of smudged dark for her hair. I went to
work on her face next, trying to capture her clear dark eyes, the eyes fixed steadily on me,
the gentle uptilt of her nose, the soft curve of her cheek, the impossibly beautiful shape of
her lips. I worked on those forever and was still not satisfied, but I wanted to get all of her
down, so I moved on. I worked in the shape of the collar of the pajamas against her throat,
the deep v of the front and the shadow between her breasts disappearing inside. Her little
hands resting on the sheets, I needed to get those on paper; the juxtaposition of her gentle
curving fingers against the crisp folds of fabric, the way her ivory skin stretched taught over
her knuckles, then relaxed into satin down to her shell pink fingernails.
I was just going to work on the way the sheets wrapped taught around her hip when, with a
choked yowl and a flurry of patchy fur, Debussy leaped into the middle of the bed. Bella
laughed and collapsed onto her side, scooping the cat up in her arms. I growled and shot
him a hateful glare.

"Stupid bloody cat."

"Edward, don't be mean," she chastised softly.

"That cat hates me, Bella."

"Don't be silly. He doesn't bite you nearly as hard as he used to. That means he's getting
used to you."

I rolled my eyes at her ridiculous logic, but I smiled.

"Can I see it?" she asked softly, suddenly timid.

"Of course, love," I said, scrambling up the bed to hand the drawing to her. She took it and
turned it around, saying nothing for a long moment. Her eyebrows drew together and her
lips parted slightly.

"What? What's wrong?" I asked, suddenly concerned. Was she insulted? Offended? Was it
too intimate? Did I push her too far?

"Edward…" she said my name on an exhale, "It's so beautiful. You make me so beautiful."

I sagged in relief and smiled, "Bella, that's what I see when I look at you."

She looked up, those dark eyes clear and glittering before she abruptly launched herself at
me, wrapping her arms around my neck. I laughed and tipped us backwards, pulling her
down onto me. Her hair fell forward, making a curtain around my face, and I slid my fingers
up into it, pulling her face down to mine. We kissed, long and slow and sensual. The feeling
of her body pressing down into me, of her hands braced against my chest, of her bare legs
tangling with mine, was all driving me mad.

"Bella…" I groaned against her lips.

"Mmmmm," she hummed, dipping her head and kissing my neck.

"Ah…Bella, if we don't stop…"

She sighed and raised herself up above me. "I know, I know. Sorry," she smiled. Then she
leaned down and kissed me briefly. "Just...not yet," she whispered.

Her words shot through me like fire and my head fell back on the bed as Bella scrambled off
of me.

"I'll just clean up quickly," she said over her shoulder, picking her discarded clothes up off
the arm chair and disappearing into the bathroom. I lay still for a few minutes, willing my
breathing and my body back into line, trying hard not to think about what she said and
exactly how soon "not yet" might be. By the time she re-emerged, looking fresh and lovely, I
was fully recovered. I kissed her forehead as I passed her on my way in to clean up.

When I came out of the bathroom a few minutes later I found her at the kitchen table, her
head on her hand, reading through the packet of papers Jasper had left there yesterday
evening. From the set of her shoulders I could tell the sadness and despair had settled back
on her. I stepped up behind her and ran a hand down her hair.

"What are you thinking?"

She sighed and dropped the pages back on the table.

"He's so awful. I just don't understand it. How could Rose get mixed up with a man like him?
She must know what he is."

"Love, if he's gotten her pregnant, she doesn't have a lot of options anymore."

Bella shook her head, "But she was bragging. About his money, about all the things he's
bought her. She never used to care about any of that. Edward, it was like I didn't know her."

I sighed and shook my head, because I didn't understand it either. "He must have her really
fooled, Bella. That's all I can guess. I'm so sorry."

She placed her hands flat on the table, fingers spread wide, and squared her shoulders. "I
can't think about this anymore. Not yet. I'll just fall to pieces again."

"Come on," I said, tugging her to her feet. "Let's see who's downstairs, then maybe I'll take
you out for some breakfast."

She smiled at me and nodded. We clattered down the back staircase and heard voices
coming from the kitchen. When we emerged, we found a little gathering of friends already
there. Carlisle was puttering at the stove while Esme leaned on the counter next to him
talking and smoking. Emmett and Alice were seated at the table, drinking coffee and
laughing.

"Alice, you're still here," Bella said, surprised.

Alice shot her an amused smile and arched an eyebrow at us. "So are you."

Bella blushed and looked at her feet. Alice laughed and waved a hand in the air
dismissively. "A little too much champagne last night." She pointed an accusing finger at
Esme, who laughed. "Esme let me crash here in one of the spare bedrooms so I didn't have
to walk home."

"Yeah," Emmett said as he stretched widely, "I always wind up sleeping over. Esme's parties
are funny that way."

We crossed the kitchen and sank into chairs between them as Carlisle set a cup of coffee in
front of Bella. I leaned into her and whispered, "I'm sorry about this, love."

She shot me a puzzled look as she raised her cup and took a sip. The horrified look on her
face was priceless, but to her credit, she didn't make a sound. She just swallowed and
gamely drank again. I stifled my laughter and as I looked across the table, I saw Emmett's
shoulders shaking, too.

"Carlisle went out for croissants this morning," Esme said lightly, placing a basket of warm
pastries in front of us. Esme softly slapped my shoulder in warning and pointed a stern
finger at Emmett. I smiled at her, but stopped laughing. Emmett and I dove for the
croissants at the same time and wrestled briefly for the biggest one. Bella and Alice waited
until the coast was clear before taking croissants, too.

"So, what's up, buttercup?" Alice said brightly to Bella. "What are you going to do now?"

Bella's eyes shot to me apprehensively and I smiled, trying to look…encouraging?

Supportive? Whatever she needed me to be.

"Well…" Bella said, drawing a deep breath, "I've decided to stay for a bit and find a job."

Alice's face lit up and she clapped her hands together, "Bella! You're staying in Paris?!"

Bella held up a warning hand, "I haven't made any long term decisions, Alice. But at the
very least, I need to earn enough money for the fares home, so I'm just going to focus on
that for right now. I'll figure out the rest later." She dropped her head into her hands. "I
need to call my parents today and tell them. I can't put it off any longer."

"Well, you can do it from our place," Alice said soothingly, "I'll hold your hand the whole
time."

Bella looked up at her and laughed and the atmosphere relaxed considerably. We spent
another pleasant half hour over breakfast, choking down Carlisle's coffee, talking and
laughing about nothing in particular, until Emmett rose reluctantly, saying he had to show
his face at the office at some point that day.

I rose and offered to walk the girls back to their place, mostly because I didn't want to say
goodbye to Bella just yet. Alice retrieved her bag and we set off. The weather had turned to
spring within the last few days. The air was soft and warm and the trees on every street
were covered in tiny new green leaves. Window boxes on buildings were beginning to
explode with color. It was hard to feel anything but happy on a morning like this. Bella
seemed to feel the same way, holding my hand and smiling softly as we walked and Alice
chattered on about the people who'd been at Esme's the night before.

"Bella, you missed one hell of a shindig last night. You'd never believe the people who
showed up. There was this one fella…"

"Alice, wait," Bella interrupted, pulling on my hand to stop me. She was staring into the
window of a café and I looked at her curiously to see what had caught her attention. She
pointed to a small hand-lettered sign propped in the lower corner. "Recherche serveuse."

"Does that say 'waitress needed'?" Bella asked.

"Very good," I murmured, pleased at how she was picking up a little French. "Yes, it does.
But Bella, are you sure—"

She dropped my hand and was halfway inside before I could finish my sentence. She
snatched the sign out of the window and marched towards the zinc bar in back where a
small balding man in a white apron was polishing glasses and lining them up on a shelf.

Alice and I followed in her wake. I wondered if I should jump in and offer to help her, but
she seemed to have a plan and she was determined, so I stood back to watch.

"Pardonnez-moi?" Bella asked tentatively, holding up the sign.

"Oui?" he asked as he turned, craning his head back to look at her through his glasses,
which had slipped far down his nose.

Bella closed her eyes for a moment and I knew she was trying to sort out what to say in her
meager French.

"Êtes-vous ici à propos de l'emploi?" he asked.

Bella seemed to snag the word "employ" and nodded vigorously. He squinted closely at her.

"You don't speak French, do you?" he asked in rather clear English.

She shook her head and smiled apologetically. "No, I don't."

"How do you expect to wait tables if you don't speak French?" he snapped. Bella looked
defeated and I started to take a step towards her, but Alice dropped a hand on my forearm.
I looked at her and she warned me with her eyes to wait, so I did.

The café owner snorted. "You're American?" Bella nodded again.

"Eh," he growled. "Like those roustabouts up front." He waved a dismissive hand at a group
of men sitting around several tables up by the front windows. I'd noticed them as we came
in. They were casually dressed, rumpled, most of them wore beards. Several had notebooks
open in front of them but nobody was working, they were just talking and laughing and
watching the world flow by out on the sidewalk.

"They're Americans, too?" Bella asked.

"Oui. They come and order one coffee and stay all afternoon. Layabouts!" he groused,
throwing his hands in the air.

Bella paused for a moment, considering the bohemians at the front of the café.

"Can't your waitresses convince them to order more?"

"Bah!" he barked. "They don't speak French either. All they can do is order coffee. And the
girls don't speak English."

Bella rounded on him, smiling. "Oh, really? That's too bad."

Bella and the café owner examined each other for a long moment. He'd clearly caught her
drift and was considering her. I watched his eyes travel the length of her body and I wanted
to charge over there and drag her away, but Alice tightened her grip on my arm. Besides,
his perusal of her didn't exactly feel lecherous. It was more of a frank appraisal of a piece of
goods.

"You think you can get the layabouts to order more?" he finally asked her.

Bella beamed and nodded. "Just give me a chance," she pleaded.

He was silent for a long moment. "Alright. We'll give it a try," he said with a huff. "I could use
a waitress that speaks English, I suppose. More Americans in here every day. But you learn
French, and quick. Do we understand each other?"

"Absolutely," Bella said firmly. "I'm a quick study. You won't be sorry."

"Well," he said with a solemn nod. "We'll give it a try, eh? Come at eleven tomorrow. What's
your name, mademoiselle?"

"Oh! Bella. Bella Swan." She stepped forward to shake his hand firmly.

"Monsieur Claud. Pierre Claud. Tomorrow, then, mademoiselle."

Bella thanked him again before backing away to rejoin Alice and me.

"Bella, did you just talk your way into a waitressing job when you don't even speak
French?" Alice asked, grinning wildly.
"I guess I did," she said, smiling, clearly proud of herself.

"I have to admit, love, I'm impressed," I said, throwing an arm around her shoulders as we
left the café. I made sure to do it inside so that everyone there, including the American
bohemians that Bella had been hired to sweet talk, would see her with me and understand
that she was only there to serve them food.

"But Edward," she said as we hit the sidewalk, "you and Alice have to teach me to speak
French right away."

"Of course, Bella. You'll pick it up in no time."

"You'll be fine, Bella," Alice reassured her. "You're so smart. I was a lousy student and even I
manage enough French to get around."

"Okay, so start teaching me!" Bella insisted.

"Now? While we walk?"

"We're ten minutes from home. I can learn a lot in ten minutes. Go," Bella said firmly.

Alice and I spent five of those ten minutes arguing about what would be most useful for
Bella to learn first. Alice was adamant she needed to know how to flirt in French. I insisted
she was better off knowing things like "Chicken, beef or fish?" I won out, mostly because I
refused to teach Bella how to flirt with other men, and by the time we reached the
apartment, Bella had learned "Are you ready to order?" and "Can I bring you the check?"
She wasn't kidding, she was a very fast learner.

"Alright, kids," Alice drawled as we reached the door. "I'll head on in so you two can say
goodbye in private. Don't get in any alley fights or make any tearful declarations in public
while I'm gone, okay?"

Bella laughed as Alice disappeared inside.

"Are you sure you don't want me to stay, love?" I asked, reaching out to put my hands on her
hips and pull her closer to me.

Bella rested her hands lightly on my arms and shook her head.

"Talking to my dad is going to be hard enough. You'll just distract me. No, best to just get
this over with. You need to paint today anyway. I took up your whole day yesterday."

"You know I didn't mind that. I have to play at le Tabou tonight. Will you come?"

She nodded. "For a while anyway. I can't stay out too late since I have to work tomorrow.
Wow, that sounds funny, doesn't it? I can hardly believe it."

"You amaze me, Bella. Truly."

She looked down and smiled. I leaned in and kissed her softly, choosing to leave things light
and easy after all the turmoil of the past day. With any luck, now that she was staying a bit
longer, we might have a chance to just be together and enjoy each other. At least, I fervently
hoped so.

"Alright, love. Go call your parents. I'll come by at eight to get you, alright?"

She nodded. I slid my hand around her neck under her hair and pulled her in for another
kiss, because I couldn't resist her and I wouldn't see her again until tonight.

"I love you," I murmured against her lips, fully aware that she hadn't said it back to me yet.
But somehow I wasn't worried.

"I know," she whispered back.

Right now, that was enough.

***

Chapter 17

Calling my parents was every bit as unpleasant as I thought it would be. My mother cried,
my father yelled, and Alice held my hand, just like she promised she would.

"What in the blue blazes did you think you were doing, Isabella?" My father's voice
thundered at me from more than 5,000 miles away.

"Helping a friend," I said stoically. "I had to make sure Rose was okay. What if she had been
lost or hurt and I had just left her to fend for herself? She's practically a daughter to you!"

"There were other ways to go about it," he roared back. I could picture him so perfectly: his
face was probably beet red, his mustache twitching angrily. "What if something had
happened to you? A young woman alone, do they even speak English in that city?"

And on it went. At different points in our conversation he insisted that they would wire me
money for an immediate trip home. It hadn't occurred to me to ask my parents for money:
things were always tight growing up, and we never had money for anything extra. I was
attending college on a scholarship. Last week it would have been a relief to know that help
was so readily available, but when he suggested it I panicked. Home was within my grasp,
and I ran in the opposite direction.
I told my parents that I knew it had been a mistake to run off without asking permission,
and that I was going to pay my penance by earning my way home.

"What kind of a job do you think you're going to get?" my father asked incredulously. "You
don't have a degree, and you don't speak French!"

I started to explain that I had already gotten a job at a café, but he started sputtering angrily
almost as soon as the word "waitress" passed my lips.

"Yes, but—" I started, only to be interrupted. "But you—" He was impossible, ranting almost
incomprehensibly. I rested my head against the wall with a dull thud.

Alice cleared her throat lightly, and I looked up. She smiled and held out a hand. I covered
the receiver with my own and shook my head. "Alice, I really don't think that's a good idea.
He's very upset right now."

"Give me the phone," she insisted in a loud whisper. "I'm great with parents. Trust me."

I gave her a skeptical glance, but she just stuck out her hand further. "Trust me," she said
again.

"Dad?" I said, removing my hand from the receiver.

"Don't you Dad me, young lady. When I get you home—"

"CHARLIE," I said, almost shouting. There was a pause as my father stopped yelling,
probably in shock at the disrespectful tone I had just thrown at him. "My roommate Alice
would like to speak with you."

"Your... your roommate?" He seemed surprised, so I took advantage of the silence and
shoved the phone at her.

She winked, took the phone, and proceeded to charm the pants off my irate, taciturn father.
She corroborated my story about living in a boarding house with other students from
Rose's school without batting an eye, even though I had never gone into specifics about the
story I had told my parents. She assured him that she wouldn't dream of leaving the house
without a proper chaperone, and that she completely understood his concerns about safety
and unsuitable "callers." After about five minutes, she twittered a "Goodbye, Mr. Swan!" and
passed the handset back to me. To my complete shock, he was calm when he spoke again.

"That Alice girl sounds like she's got a good head on her shoulders," he said. "You listen to
everything she says, do you hear me?"

My eyes widened and I stared at Alice in astonishment. Her smile grew.

"Of course," I said smoothly. He demanded my address and the phone number. Alice
scribbled the number down for me and I read it off quickly, promising to call him again
within the week.

After I hung up, I threw my arms around her neck and hung on for dear life.

"Thank you," I whispered.

She laughed delightedly and hugged me back. "What are friends for?"

I squeezed her a little tighter at that. Friends. I didn't have Rose anymore, and that hurt
more than I could say, but I had Alice and a whole host of other people in my life now who
cared about me. Edward, Esme, Carlisle, Emmett, Jasper. They couldn't replace Rose, but
they could help me make it through our separation.

I was completely flustered when I woke up the next morning. True to my word, I had only
gone to Edward's gig for a few hours, turning in early and making sure to set the little alarm
clock next to my bed. I fluttered around the apartment, trying to eat, pick out the right
clothes to wear for my first day on the job, and do my hair.

Alice laughed at me when I managed to slop half a cup of coffee down my pajama top.

"Breathe, Bella," she said. "You have to calm down. No one wants a waitress who's so jumpy
she spills their food all over them."

In the end, I got out the door and to the café at half past ten. Alice teased me as I hurried out
the door, but I had been raised by a man who valued punctuality above all other things.

"If you're early, you're on time," he'd say. "If you're on time, you're late. And if you're
late...well, don't ever be late."

Monsieur Claud was standing in the exact spot he had occupied the day before, polishing
glasses and overseeing the bustling café with a look of bored supremacy. He saw me as I
picked my way through the tables near the sidewalk, walking right past the group of young
American men I had been hired to cater to.

Squaring my shoulders and plastering a smile on my face, I approached Monsieur Claud.

"Bonjour," I said clearly, speaking slowly enough so that my tongue didn't stumble too
badly over the unfamiliar syllables. "Je suis
prête à commencer. Comment puis-je vous aider?"

He arched an eyebrow at me and almost smiled. Then he started speaking in rapid, almost
incomprehensible French, and my confidence plummeted again. "Très bien, mademoiselle.
Peut-être vous serez la femme qu'elle faut alors. Suivez-moiTrès bien, mademoiselle.
Finalement, vous
êtes peut-être la fille qu'il faut pour ce travail. Suivez-moi."

He turned and walked away, his dress shoes clicking against the tiled floors. I scurried after
him, catching a white apron that he tossed over his shoulder. I hoped he wasn't planning on
speaking French to me all day, because I had only managed to memorize a few key phrases,
and none of them were incredibly conversational in nature. For some reason, Edward
didn't want to teach me any of those words.

I tied the apron around my waist and followed him through a set of double doors into a
small, tidy kitchen. He pulled a folded piece of paper from a stack next to the cabinets.

"Memorize this," he said, giving me a stern look. I glanced at it briefly: it was a menu.
Complete gibberish to me then, but I was sure with Alice and Edward's help I could learn it.
"You have two weeks to show me that you can convince those American hipsters," he said
the word with dripping distain, "to order more than a single cup of coffee each a day. You
will also be learning French so that you can pick up other duties around the café."

I nodded my understanding and he turned again, calling to a girl who stood chatting with
another man I assumed was a cook of some kind.

"Angelique," he called. The girl turned with a warm smile. "Viens par ici. C'est la petite
nouvelle, l'Américaine. Elle ne parle pas français, tu vas devoir l'aider."

He turned back to me. "This is Angelique, she's our best waitress. Work with her, learn from
her. Perhaps with her help you will also learn the language faster, non?"

I nodded again, giving Angelique a shaky smile. She beamed back at me.

"Nice to meet you," she said carefully, a thick accent tweaking the harder consonants and
giving them an almost saucy edge. It reminded me of the way Esme spoke when she was
excited, slipping closer to her native French in her haste to get her words out.

"Do you speak English?" I asked in surprise. She looked blankly at me for a second, then
wrinkled her nose in concentration. After a few beats, she raised her hands up, spaced a
short distance apart.

"Very little," she said. "Hello, goodbye. Nice to meet you."

I smiled and stuck out my hand. "Nice to meet you, too."

She shook my hand and then turned back to the cook, who was watching our exchange with
evident curiosity. "Nous parlerons plus tard, Benjamin. Bon appétit."

The two of us walked back out into the café, which was slightly fuller than it had been when
I arrived just twenty minutes before. Angelique immediately started making the rounds,
speaking to customers comfortably and smiling as she went. I watched her for a few
minutes before I heard Monsieur Claud clear his throat. I whirled around. He was looking at
me with a mixture of annoyance and amusement.

"Well, mademoiselle? Let us see you work your charms on the American layabouts."

He handed me a small pad of paper and a tiny pencil, then made a sweeping gesture with
his hand. I clutched the pad and pencil in one hand and my menu in the other and walked
boldly toward the tables near the sidewalk.

There were three of them, young men close to my age who looked generally unwashed and
ragged, in a way that I supposed they thought was rakish and charming. Their hair was
overgrown, and they sported scruffy beards and jaunty berets. I had a momentary
flashback to the pompous philosopher I met the very first time I visited Edward's house.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," I said, stopping at their table with a brilliant smile. They
looked up from their conversation in almost comical shock.

"Well, well, what have we here?" the man closest to me said. He gave me a slow once-over
and ran his fingers through his dirty blond hair. "Did old Pierre finally hire an ex-pat? A
pretty one, too."

My smile was frozen as I considered how to answer him. Before I could figure it out, another
one of the men spoke up.

"Michael, she's clearly much too pretty for you." The second man tossed his head, carelessly
flicking his black hair out of his eyes and raising an eyebrow at me. "I'm sure she'd rather
speak to a real man, wouldn't you, ma minette?"

"Let me know when one gets here, will you?" I asked, finally finding my voice. I was
surprised at the teasing and flirtatious tone that came out. I sounded like Alice. They looked
at me in momentary shock. "In the mean time, what can I get you boys? Another cup of
coffee? A baguette? Maybe a croissant?"

The third man, who looked a little more well-groomed than his compatriots, winked at me
and put out a hand. "Well, I suppose I can order something if you can promise us we'll see
your smiling face back out here on a regular basis."

I winked back, feeling slightly uncomfortable with the gesture but not wanting to appear
cold, and handed him the menu, then turned to the other two. "Now, how about some more
coffee for you two?"

By the end of the afternoon, I had gotten multiple small orders from the Americans, and
Monsieur Claud seemed at least mildly impressed. None of them had ordered what
amounted to a full meal, but I gathered that even getting them to pay the nominal fee for a
refill on their coffee was a step up from the average day.
Angelique and I had several stilted attempts at conversation throughout the day, although
it often took us several tries to get our points across. We stuttered through our
interactions, using exaggerated gestures and pointing to objects to communicate. Despite
that, I never got the feeling that she was losing her patience with me. It almost seemed like
we were playing a game, trading words and phrases in our native languages and giggling
like small children who had discovered a new toy.

When Edward came by around seven that evening, I was standing near my new American
friends, chatting freely and pouring coffee. They were trying to convince me that they were
serious writers, revolutionary types who were not to be trifled with. Their claims were
offset by the ridiculous lines they threw at me all day, flirting outrageously and using every
opportunity they found to wink, touch my hand, or stare shamelessly. As time wore on, I
was increasingly amused by their behavior.

I was laughing at something Eric, the black-haired man, had said to me when I felt a strong
arm wrap around my waist. I nearly dropped the coffee urn in surprise. Looking up, I saw
Edward's face, contorted in a sour frown.

"Edward," I gasped, tugging away from his grasp and smiling. "I wasn't expecting you."

"Evidently," he said, still frowning. He glowered over at the Americans, who were looking
back at him in an almost calculating manner.

"Excuse me, Eric, Michael, Tyler," I said to them, pulling Edward inside and away from them.
Monsieur Claud was in his customary spot by the bar, polishing his seemingly endless
supply of glasses. I wondered if he simply wiped them down over and over again as an
excuse to stand around and survey his domain.

"Do you need me any more today, monsieur?" I asked politely, still holding Edward's hand
tightly.

His eyes flickered up to Edward, and he smirked. "Ah to be young again," he said. "Go ahead,
Mademoiselle Bella, you did well today. Demain à la même heure, s'il vous plaît."

"Oui," I responded. "Je comprends."

Edward hooked his arm back around my waist and we walked back outside, passing the
Americans again. I waved cheerily, and they called back to me.

"Goodnight, my love," Michael called. "Until we meet again!"

Their catcalls faded into the distance behind us, and Edward heaved a loud sigh as we made
our way toward my apartment.

I looked up at him. "What's wrong? Bad day?"

He took my free hand in his and squeezed my waist as we walked. "Just long," he sighed. "I
missed you. It doesn't seem fair that those blokes got to spend all day talking with you and
listening to you laugh."

I giggled a little at his sullen tone, then stopped when I realized he was serious. I stopped
walking and tugged his hand. He looked down at me, eyebrows raised.

"Edward Cullen," I said, struggling to keep my face straight. "Are you jealous?"

His frown deepened and I laughed, standing on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. "You are! You're
jealous of those ridiculous boys."

I shook my head and started walking again, pulling him behind me. "You have absolutely
nothing to worry about," I said with another giggle.

"Is that so?" His frown was mostly gone, but his face still held a little bit of reserved
concern.

"Of course," I said, more seriously this time. "Those boys don't know me, Edward. They
know that I have a nice smile and I speak English and I'm willing to listen to them spout
ridiculous philosophy while they flirt with me." We got to my door and I unlocked it,
holding it open so that he would follow me.

"But they don't know why I'm in Paris, or anything about where I come from or who I am.
You know me." A small smile played across his face as the lift chugged upwards to my floor.

"Is that the only reason?" he said, his voice husky and low. "What else don't they know that I
do?"

I laughed, but he simply waited. The jealousy was cute, if I was being completely honest
with myself, so I indulged him. I drummed a finger against my chin and sighed
exaggeratedly.

"Well, I suppose you could say that you know how to make my heart pound." I peeked up at
him and saw his smile widen slightly. The doors opened and we walked toward my door,
hands still linked.

The apartment was quiet, so I knew Alice was probably still at work. Edward sat down on
the armchair in the living room and pulled me into his lap, wrapping his arms securely
around me. I leaned my face into his neck and closed my eyes.

"I know other things," he said softly, running his index finger from the tip of my nose, down
past my lips and to the tip of my chin. "I know what you look like when you're sitting in the
sun, writing in those notebooks of yours. I know what you look like when you're lost in a
story, and when you're watching me but don't want me to know."
I felt my cheeks flush, and I turned into his chest to hide it. After a moment, he spoke again.

"I know what you look like when you wake up in the morning, crinkled from sleep and
absolutely beautiful. I know what you look like when you're sad." He paused and leaned
back, pulling my face from his chest. He stared into my eyes for a moment, then kissed my
eyelids. "I know how to make you smile again."

My heart was pounding so hard that I was surprised he couldn't hear it. The moment felt
impossibly intimate. We had transitioned from playful teasing into something... more. Once
again, Edward was declaring himself to me, telling me how much he cared, showing me with
gentle touches and sweet kisses. And once again, I had no idea what to tell him.

"I know that you're brave," he whispered, now running his nose down the shell of my ear. I
shivered and made an incoherent little sound. "I know you're smart, and loyal, and mine."

Unable to stand it anymore, I pulled his face down, molding my lips to his and trying to
convey every confusing feeling that swirled in my heart. He responded immediately,
shifting me so that my legs were across the arms of the chair and his hands were splayed
securely across my back. My hands wove into his soft hair, and he groaned indistinctly. The
sound ran a thrill through me, and I pulled him closer still.

When it felt like I wasn't going to be able to go another second without a breath, he pulled
away and started kissing my neck, leaving hot, wet spots down toward my shoulder. I was
gasping and whimpering, unable to even feel embarrassed about the needy sounds I was
making. I was lost in a pleasant burn, my skin hot and tingling. My world shrank to the man
whose lips and hands were running wild over my skin.

One of those hands was still clutching my hip, but the other one was making a circuit up my
side, across my shoulders, and down again. He touched my stomach lightly, then, ever-so-
slowly, ran his palm up my front until it hovered over my breast.

I opened my eyes and found him staring at me, pupils dilated and panting as if he had just
run a race. The look of indecision in his eyes was too much to bear. I had done this to him,
with my erratic reactions and my mixed signals. No more. I could give him this. I wanted to
give him this. And I wanted it for myself.

Smiling softly, I placed my hand over his, pushing it gently down until it sat cupped, right on
top of my pounding heart.

"Yours," I said simply. He beamed at me, and lowered his lips for another searing kiss. His
hands moved more confidently now, making soft, experimental squeezes and strokes. I
retightened my grip on his hair and was just about to shift into a more comfortable position
when the phone rang, shrill and jarring. I pulled away abruptly, startled out of my peaceful
Edward-bubble by the noise. He dropped his hands immediately, and for a second we sat,
stiff as pokers, frozen on the armchair.
Then the phone rang again, and I stood. "I'd better get that," I said quietly. He nodded and
ran a hand distractedly through his hair.

I picked up the receiver mid-ring. "Allô?"

There was a short pause, and then I heard a familiar and completely unexpected voice.
"Hello... Bella?"

"Jacob?" I asked. My voice sounded shrill and confused in my ears. I looked toward Edward
almost unconsciously. He was staring at me with a weird look on his face. I couldn't quite
identify the emotion there, and I was so thrown by Jacob's voice that I wasn't fully ready to
try and figure out Edward at that moment. I turned away.

"Jacob, how did you get this number?"

"I spoke to Charlie last night," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You
had us worried sick, Bella. What were you thinking?"

"I've already explained myself to my parents, Jake," I sighed. Behind me, I heard Edward get
up and walk to the balcony door. He slipped out, closing the door behind him. "Why are you
calling?"

"Why?" He sounded confused. "Bella, you ran away from school, from home, without a word
to anybody. You're supposed to graduate and move back home in just a couple of months,
and instead you're gallivanting off in Europe?"

I sighed and rubbed my temple absently. "Look, I'm sorry I just took off without saying
anything, but—"

"Hey, it's okay," he said quickly. "You made a mistake, you weren't thinking. People do
stupid things sometimes. The point is, you need to come home. Let Charlie send you the
money and just come home. You don't even have to go back to school if you don't want to.
We'll figure it out together."

"Stupid?" I wasn't sure which part of his speech to react to first, so I just went with my gut.
"What are you talking about?"

"Sweetheart, I talked to your parents. They told me why you left and you have to admit, it
was a little foolish. I mean, Rose didn't even bother writing to you for months. Running off
by yourself to save someone who you didn't even know needed saving? It was stupid. The
point is I forgive you. Just come home, we can put all this behind us."

"You ... you forgive me?" I bristled. "I didn't ask for your forgiveness. I've met incredible
people here, and I'm not sorry I came looking for Rose. What kind of a friend would I have
been if I just left her to fend for herself? What kind of a woman would that make me?"
"One who knew her limits," he said calmly. "Bella, you're a girl from Forks. You don't belong
in Paris. You belong here with me. What about all our plans?"

"Who are you to tell me where I do and don't belong?" I snapped, more than a little angry. A
couple of months ago everything he said would have made sense, but now it just enraged
me. Maybe it was that my journey had made me realize my own strength, or maybe it was
that spending time with Alice and Edward had given me the courage to realize that my life
at home was boring and, if I wasn't unhappy, then I was certainly unsatisfied. I didn't want
that life anymore.

"Why are you so mad?" he asked, sounding a little annoyed himself. "We've talked about
this. I was willing to wait for you to go to school, because I knew how much you wanted it,
but I'm done waiting now. You're going to come home and we're going to move on with our
lives. We can talk about you finishing school when you get back."

His tone indicated that he thought his decision would be final. And in another life, it would
have been. But I heard his words and saw my mother shrinking into the background of her
own life, all for the love of a man who didn't know how to give her the kind of space she
needed to live. Everything he had ever offered me suddenly seemed like a cage. A nice cage,
and a comfortable one, but one I was no longer willing to pretend I wanted.

"You don't have any say in this, Jacob. I don't know why you think you do. You haven't been
particularly attentive these last several years, beyond taking me out when I'm home and
reminding me that you expect me to come back to you. That's not what I want." I considered
telling him about Edward, but I knew that information would get back to my parents, and I
wasn't ready for that yet. "I'm doing this my way. I've gotten a job at a café, and I have a nice
place to live. When I make enough money to come home, if I come home, we can talk. But I
don't think you should wait for me, Jake. We're not good together."

My voice shook a little at the end, and I felt unwanted tears prick at the corners of my eyes.
He was one of my best friends, despite the fact that I wasn't in love with him, and this was
starting to feel a lot like goodbye. I heard him inhale sharply.

"We're... what do you mean we're not good together? We've always been together."

"That's just it," I said, softer now. "We haven't been together, Jake. Not for a long time. I
think it's time we realized that and moved on. We want different things."

I turned around then, looking for the man who had eclipsed everyone and everything in my
life in such a short period of time. Edward was leaning against the railing of the balcony,
cigarette in hand, glaring down at the courtyard below. I couldn't help but feel like it was
my fault he had that look on his face, and I would do anything to wipe it away.

"I have to go now, Jake. Please don't call again. If you want to know how I'm doing, you can
ask my parents, I'll be keeping them updated. I'm sorry this is the way things had to end,
but I think we're better off apart."
"Bella, just... wait, okay? Don't go. What do you want? Tell me what you want, you can have
it."

His voice was shaking now, and the burning in my eyes got worse.

"You can't give me what I want. I'm so sorry." I started to cry in earnest then. "I never meant
to hurt you. Take care, Jake. Goodbye."

"I love you, Bella. Don't hang up."

Edward turned, and his eyes zeroed in on the tears streaking down my cheeks and my
quivering chin. He stubbed his cigarette out and walked back into the apartment, bringing
with him the faint smell of tobacco.

"Goodbye."

I set the receiver back on the hook just as he reached me, pulling me into his arms. I
grabbed onto him and buried my face in his shirt, sniffling slightly.

"Are you okay, love?" he asked.

I nodded but didn't answer, taking huge gulps of air in an attempt to stop my tears. We
stood there for several quiet moments before I spoke.

"I told him I wasn't coming back to him," I whispered. "It's over." He stiffened slightly, then
started to rub my back gently.

"And that's... good?" The uncertainty in his voice killed me.

"It was hard, but it was right." I pulled away so I could see his face. He smiled and ran his
thumbs under my eyes, wiping my tears dry. "This is where I want to be right now."

*****

I settled into a steady routine after that first day at the café. Every morning I went shopping
at the market, enjoying the spring sunshine first thing in the morning. Most days Edward
was waiting for me outside my door when I left, and we would go together. My afternoons
were spent at the café, joking with the American boys and learning French from Angelique.
By the end of the first week, we were able to carry on basic conversations, despite the fact
that we were still using lots of gestures and pantomime.

Edward met me at the end of my shift, generally glaring at Eric, Michael, and Tyler as we
left. They knew that I was seeing "the British chap," as they called him, and enjoyed egging
him on every evening. I tried to tell him they were only kidding, but he insisted that I didn't
understand their true motives. Most of those conversations only ended when I kissed him.
It made me uneasy to go about my business knowing that Rose was so close. Back home, we
never went a day without seeing each other. We were roommates in college, so we spent
every morning and night together when we were in Seattle. And yet here we were, less than
a mile apart, and she had ordered me away. Some days that was very hard to take.

Despite the Rose-shaped hole in my life, though, everything else felt right for the first time.
Evenings were spent out with Alice or Edward, or, more often than not, at one of Esme's
parties. After those first couple of gatherings, it became easier to venture out into the house
and mingle with the guests. Most of the time Edward was with me, but if he wasn't I didn't
mind. I no longer felt like a fish out of water. Alice took every opportunity to take credit for
my "transformation."

"I knew the second I saw you standing there in that ridiculous cotton blouse that you were
going places," she would say. "Batting those Bambi eyes like a lost little girl. Now look at
you!"

I found the "lost little girl" comment more than a little insulting, but remembering how I
felt on that first day in Paris, I couldn't say it was inaccurate. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily,
Emmett was usually around to remind the group about how I had managed to get into two
bar fights in two nights and mixed with drug dealers and thugs immediately after that.
Edward didn't think it was funny, but Emmett almost always earned a laugh or two with
those stories.

I was spending a rare evening at home one Thursday night. Edward was playing at Le
Tabou, but I had a headache and didn't feel like sitting in the smoke for hours. Alice had
gone to Jasper's place, and I was curled up with one of my notebooks on the armchair. I had
been writing more and more frequently, taking in details of life around me and trying to
weave something coherent from them. I had almost finished sketching out a character who
I had been thinking about for days when the front door slammed open suddenly.

I dropped my pencil and looked up. Alice stood in the doorway, dripping wet and crying. I
hadn't even noticed that it was raining. Her eyes were red and her shoulders were shaking.
Tossing my notebook to the side, I jumped up and ran forward, throwing one arm around
her shoulders and kicking the door closed with my toe.

"Alice honey, what's wrong?"

She shook her head and wrapped her arms around me, squeezing my waist until I was
gasping for breath. I steered her toward the bathroom, hoping to get her dried off before
she got sick.

"What happened, sweetie?" I asked softly. "Where's Jasper?"

At the sound of his name, fresh tears streamed out of her eyes. She wasn't making any
noise, just shaking and shuddering as her eyes streamed. I sat her down on the toilet and
grabbed the biggest, fluffiest towel I could find.

"Jasper," she said finally, her voice coming with a whimper. "Oh God."

"Did he hurt you?" I asked, barely restraining my tone. I didn't want to make accusations,
but leaving Rose behind with Royce had been nearly impossible, and if Jasper had done
something to Alice I wasn't going to stand for it.

"No," she said shakily. "Nothing like that. Well, he yelled, but Bella, he had a good reason.
God, the things that have happened to that man."

"You're not making any sense," I said, patting her hair dry and wrapping the towel around
her shoulders. "Why don't you go get into something warm and I'll make you something hot
to drink."

She shuddered and stood, shaking her head slightly. "I didn't know," she whispered. "I don't
know how to help him."

I nodded, even though I didn't understand. Clearly something horrible had happened, but I
couldn't for the life of me figure out what it was.

"It was just a helmet," she continued, tottering unsteadily toward her bedroom. It was
unnerving to see my put-together, confident friend reduced to stutters and tears. "An army
helmet. I had never seen anything from his time with the army before."

At my look of confusion, she elaborated. "He was a combat reporter. He always said he got
rid of everything when the war ended. I didn't know," she said again.

"Alice, what happened?" I repeated.

She shook her head and walked into her bedroom, shutting the door softly behind her. I
stared at the back of her door for a few seconds, debating whether to follow her or follow
through with my promise of a hot drink. In the end I chose the drink, starting a pot of coffee
and standing in the kitchen alone, rubbing my eyes and trying to piece together a story that
made sense.

The coffee was almost finished when she came out, dry and still red eyed, but at least not
crying anymore. She sat silently at the table, and I joined her, taking her hand without a
word.

"I figured he got the scars from something during the war," she started abruptly, her voice
slightly scratchy. "Something daring or heroic, you know?" She turned to me and stared
pleadingly. I nodded.

"He got them in a bar fight," she said with a shudder. "About a month after the armistice. He
was so drunk he didn't notice that he had glass shards in his face. He couldn't feel them."
Her face screwed up a little and I stared in shock. "I don't blame him, Bella. If I had gone
through that, if I had seen..." She started crying again, noisily this time. "I don't know how to
help him and he won't let me try."

I rubbed slow circles in her back as she cried. "It'll be okay," I murmured, stroking her hair
with my other hand. "It'll all work out."

"He was at the Battle of the Bulge," she said, hiccupping a little through her tears. "There
was a... a massacre. At least a hundred men, all dead. His photographer, the best friend he
had... He... he watched them die. Thousands more in battle, everyone dying, all dead. I didn't
know, Bella. I don't know how to help him." She was almost hysterical in her grief, and I
didn't know how to respond. Just listening to her describe it was making me sick to my
stomach.

"I pulled out the helmet," she said. "I was curious, I didn't know. It was in his chest of
drawers. I was looking for a spare shirt. He..." But she put her head down on her arms,
apparently unable to say any more.

A series of booming knocks suddenly sounded at the front door. "Alice," Jasper yelled. "God
damn it, Alice."

"Oh no, you don't," I muttered, standing up and squeezing her shoulder. "You stay right
here," I said sternly. She nodded, but stared at the door like she could already see him on
the other side.

I made sure the chain was secure before pulling the door open just a crack.

"What do you want, Jasper?" I barked, trying to puff myself up as tall as I could go.

He was a mess. His shaggy blond hair stuck out at odd angles, soaking wet from the rain,
and his eyes were bloodshot.

"I have to talk to Alice," he insisted loudly, pushing on the door. It didn't budge, of course,
but that didn't stop him from pushing harder. "Alice!"

"Keep your voice down," I hissed. "She showed up here completely shaken and in tears
about forty-five minutes ago, sobbing about how you yelled at her. That's not the Alice I
know. I don't know what you said, but I am absolutely not letting you in here so you can
keep yelling."

"Alice!" he yelled again, completely ignoring me. "Alice, come out here!"

"She's not coming out here," I insisted. "And you're certainly not getting in this apartment
until you calm down. If you don't stop yelling I will call the police and have you removed."
He leaned into the small opening, still putting all his weight on the door. He smelled faintly
of alcohol.

"Have you been drinking?" I asked, backing up slightly.

"I tried," he answered gruffly. "God knows I tried. But I couldn't... knowing she was so ... just
let me in. Damn it, Bella, unlock this door."

His voice was quieter now, but it had taken on a desperate edge. I was about to tell him no
again when I felt Alice tug on my elbow.

"Let him in," she said. She wasn't crying, and her face was blank.

"Alice," I said in my most soothing tone. "I don't think that's a good idea. I don't know what
happened tonight but—"

"If you don't let him in, I'm going to," she said, interrupting me.

I stared at her, trying to decide if she was serious. She started to push past me, and I
stopped her.

"Okay, just hold on a second." I closed the door with a click and removed the chain. Almost
immediately, Jasper was pushing through, wrapping his arms around her in a tight
embrace, his face twisted in a painful grimace.

"God damn you, Alice Brandon," he hissed into her hair. "Why the hell did you find me?"

She didn't answer, just held on as if her life depended on it. I backed away, but didn't leave
the room. I was uneasy leaving the two of them alone the way things stood.

"I was going to drink myself under the table," he said to her hair, still clinging to her tightly.
"I went to my favorite nightclub and ordered a whole bottle of whiskey. I was going to drink
until I forgot. Damn it Alice, I couldn't forget you. I don't want to. I don't know what to do
without you. How the hell did this happen?"

"I'm sorry," she said finally, pulling away from his jacket and staring up at him with watery
gray eyes. "I didn't mean to—"

"Shhhh," he said, pulling her back into his chest with the closest thing to a tender
expression I had ever seen on his face. "You didn't do anything. It's not your fault I'm a God
damned mess. It's not your fault I'm broken."

She pulled away again and grasped the sides of his face in her hands, stretching up on
tiptoes so her eyes reached his chin. "You're not broken," she said fiercely. "I love you,
Jasper Whitlock. You're perfect, scars and all."
He ducked down, resting his forehead against hers and staring into her eyes. The moment
had turned uncomfortably intimate, so I backed away slowly, giving them space as I crept
back into my room. I left the door ajar, just in case things fell apart again.

There were quiet murmurs, then the soft sounds of footsteps in the hall when they went to
bed. I listened with a heavy heart, unable to even begin to imagine all that Jasper had seen
and done. Suddenly the abstract idea of war seemed all too real. Jasper, a non-combatant,
had been completely destroyed by his experiences. I wondered what he was like before the
war. Did he laugh often, did he enjoy a good joke? I had only seen a genuine smile on the
man's face a handful of times in our short friendship, and then only when Alice was around.
Did he have a girl back home? Why was he still in Europe? Where was his family, where was
his home?

I closed my eyes and lay back on my pillows as my thoughts shifted from the man in the
bedroom next door to another man: one with green eyes and a breathtaking smile. I knew
he had his own demons, his own secrets. He didn't wear his scars on his skin, but I was
certain they were there, just waiting to be revealed. I knew he was from London, and that
the city had sustained heavy casualties during the war. Why did he blame himself for Kate's
death, and why did he think it was his responsibility to get her out of the city? Most
importantly, why had he left his family there? What was the source of the rift between
them?

The questions swirled in my head, making sleep almost impossible. I had let the subject
drop after that disastrous afternoon when I found Rose, but I knew we couldn't keep
putting it off. We would have to talk. Soon.

Translations:

Je suis prête à commencer. Comment puis-je vous aider? I'm ready to begin. How can I help
you?

Très bien, mademoiselle. Finalement, vous êtes peut-être la fille qu'il faut pour ce travail.
Suivez-moi. Very good, miss. You might be the right girl for the job after all. Follow me.

Viens par ici. C'est la petite nouvelle, l'Américaine. Elle ne parle pas français, tu vas devoir
l'aider. Come here. This is the new girl, the American. She doesn't speak French, you will have
to help her.

Nous parlerons plus tard, Benjamin. Bon appétit. We'll talk later, Benjamin. Enjoy your meal.

ma minette: my pussycat.

Demain à la même heure, s'il vous plaît. The same time tomorrow, please.

Je comprends. I understand.
 ***

Chapter 18

I'd never been an early riser in the past. Most nights I was out late at Le Tabou or up late
painting, and I generally slept away most of the morning. But these days it was my favorite
time of day, because I spent it alone with Bella. She was in the habit of going to the market
every morning before her shift at the café, so I took to getting up early and meeting her at
her place so I could accompany her. It was often the only time I spent alone with her all day.
She worked all afternoon at the café, I worked all night at Le Tabou. If I wasn't there, then
we were at home, caught up in one of Esme's shindigs, and there was no way to find time
alone at one of those. So our morning strolls through the market became our time.

Today was even better because it was Bella's day off from the café, so I wouldn't have to
relinquish her to her apron and her notepad and that trio of arrogant little prats that flirted
with her all damned day. I really hated those blokes. But I tried to put the three of them and
their leering grins and risqué banter out of my mind so I could enjoy today.

The weather was glorious as April faded into May. The trees were fully green, the air was
warm, and people were out in droves, having finally shed their winter coats. Bella was
walking slowly beside me, her basket swinging from one arm, her other arm hooked
around my elbow. She was leaning slightly into my arm as we strolled slowly towards the
market. Neither one of us was in much of a hurry to get there; we were too busy enjoying
each other. She was wearing a blue cotton dress with a full swinging skirt that looked
spectacular on her and the light breeze was blowing wisps of her hair across her face. I
knew my perception was skewed, but I swear she looked more beautiful every single time
that I saw her.

She was talking as we walked, filling me in on the latest dramatic dust-up between Jasper
and Alice. Apparently there'd been some sort of fight and Alice had come home soaked and
weeping, followed quickly by a drunk and shouting Jasper. I thought for sure that Bella
would be disapproving and angry at Jasper, but surprisingly she felt sorry for him.

"Bella," I said, "I can't believe you let him in. It sounds like he was completely out of line."

"Alice wanted to talk to him. And besides, you should have seen him, Edward. He was just
so…broken. I felt terrible for him. I admit, he hasn't always been my favorite person and I
never could understand what Alice saw in him. But if you'd seen him that night…I don't
know. It's obvious that he really cares about her in his own strange way. He just has all
these issues from his past that he's having a hard time dealing with."

"Hm. So Alice took him back? They're okay now?"

"They seem to be. She loves him. She knows he's got problems, but she wants to help him
deal with them." Bella paused for a moment, her eyes watching people stroll by us in the
other direction. "You know," she began again, "it got me to thinking."

"About what?"

"You."

"Me? You're comparing me to Jasper? Bella, I'd never treat you like that."

"No, I know that. Just…well, I know you've got some things in your past that bother you.
What happened in London. Your family. You haven't spoken to your parents in five years,
Edward. I just…I'd like to help you, if I can."

I sighed and shook my head. "I don't know how you can," I finally said.

"I could start by listening. Will you tell me what happened with your family?"

"Today? Right now?"

"Why not now?"

I groaned and pulled her arm tighter to my side. "I'm just enjoying this incredible morning
with you and I don't want to think about all that stuff."

"Edward," her voice was soft, but the tone was one of warning, "just because you don't talk
about it doesn't mean it goes away. I don't want to see you fall apart on me some night like
Jasper did."

She was looking up at me, her eyes full of concern, and I knew I couldn't push her off. I
sighed heavily and raked my free hand through my hair.

"Okay, what do you want to know?"

"What happened with your parents? Why don't you talk to them?"

"It's a long story. I don't even know where to start."

"At the beginning. What are they like?"

Oddly, once I thought back to my parents when I was growing up, thought of them before,
the story felt clearer in my head, so I just started talking.

"My parents are a bit…well, my father's a barrister. Very proper. We weren't wealthy,
exactly, but I never wanted for anything growing up. We had a nice house in London, a
cottage in the countryside. They're both very proud of what they've achieved and the
standing of the family. They had very specific expectations for me and my life and I
sometimes disappointed them."

"In what way?" Bella prompted softly.

I smiled and ducked my head. "The company I kept."

"Do you mean Kate?"

"Yes. Kate and I grew up together. Her family lived in the next block and we were the only
children our age in the neighborhood, so we were playmates. Kate's family, they weren't
poor, but they certainly didn't live like us. My parents didn't approve, but we were just
children, playmates, so my mother let it be.

"During the Blitz when the bombing got really bad in London, my father moved my mother
and me to our country house. I was thirteen. I actually missed Kate so I wrote her letters,
and she wrote to me, too. We stayed in the country for about a year. But eventually my
mother decided she missed London and there hadn't been any bombings in a long time, so
my father decided it was safe enough and he brought us back. I was really happy to see Kate
again, but when I did, things were different."

"Different how?"

I shot her a meaningful look out of the corner of my eye. "We were older."

Comprehension dawned on Bella's face. "Ah…I see."

"So…yeah. It was weird for a little while. We couldn't really go back to being friends like
we'd been when we were kids, but we couldn't figure out what else to do. It took me forever
just to realize that I felt like that about her. And then it took me forever to actually do
something about it…I'm sorry, Bella. I shouldn't be telling you this stuff."

She rolled her eyes at me. "It's exactly what you should be telling me, Edward. Keep going."

I sighed, but she just tugged on my arm in encouragement.

"Alright, then. We started going out when we were fifteen, and things were great for about a
year."

"Did you love her?"

Bella's question surprised me, and I had to think about it for a minute, because I honestly
didn't know the answer anymore.

"I don't know. At the time I thought I did, so I guess so. But I was fifteen. What did I really
know, right?"
"So what happened next?"

I winced, because now I was to the hard part, the part I'd never told anybody, not even
Carlisle when I turned up on his doorstep five years ago.

"In January of '44, the Germans started bombing London again. My mother was terrified, so
my father decided to pack us up again and move to the country house. I told them I wanted
to bring Kate. I couldn't just leave her there. My father refused. He made some big speech
about how her place was with her family wherever they were. But that had nothing to do
with it. They never approved of her, they didn't think she was good enough for me. I think
they hoped that if they made me leave her in London, that we'd get tired of each other, grow
apart."

"And that didn't happen?"

"No. Well…God, I've never said this to anyone…I just…"

"It's okay, Edward. You can tell me anything." Bella's voice was soft and soothing, but I
couldn't look at her if I was going to get through this.

"Before I left I swore to her that I'd come back to her. She made me promise that I would. I
was faithful to her while I was in Devonshire. We wrote letters. But…before I left London,
we'd started quarrelling all the time.

"Quarrelling about what?" Bella asked gently.

"Everything. At least that's how it seemed. She was jealous of every girl I so much as said
hello to. She was always accusing me of getting tired of her, of wanting to change her. None
of it was remotely true, but when she got like that, nothing I said made any difference. And
part of it was me. I told you my parents didn't approve of her. Sometimes I think maybe the
more they tried to convince me to let her go, the harder I held on. I have no idea what would
have happened, how things might have turned out if…But I guess it doesn't matter. I was in
the country for five months. I fought with my parents all the time about Kate, I still wanted
to bring her out. In early June we heard on the radio that there was another bombing run
and I couldn't take it anymore. I ran away, took the train back to London. If I couldn't bring
her out to the countryside, at least I could be with her there in London."

I cleared my throat against the sudden tightening, the surge of unexpected emotion I felt as
I recounted those days. I felt Bella squeeze my arm again.

"I got back to our neighborhood and it was gone."

Bella was silent for a minute. "What was gone?"

"Our neighborhood. The houses. I lived there all my life and I couldn't find my own house,
or Kate's. It was just rubble and dirt and piles and craters. Hell…I spent three days there,
digging, trying to find something, anything. Finally one of our neighbors saw me and helped
me figure out which house had been hers, but he didn't know anything. He didn't know if
she'd been there or if they'd left."

"Oh God, Edward. I'm so sorry."

I turned to look at her face then, and she had tears in her eyes.

"Hey, now," I murmured, reaching up to stroke her cheek. "I told you, it was a long time ago.
I'm over that part."

"I'm so sorry that you went through that, though. That you had to see it."

"Plenty of people went through much worse than me."

"It doesn't matter, Edward. You were just sixteen."

"I turned seventeen in London."

"So you stayed there after that?"

"For a little while. I stayed with a friend from school. In my gut, I knew Kate was gone, but I
felt like I had to look. I had to be sure. I owed her that much after I left her there."

"Edward…"

"I did, though, Bella. If I'd come sooner, or if I'd stood up to my father, she might be alive."

Bella sighed, but didn't try to force it. "How long did you stay?"

"A few months. After a month or so the War Department confirmed that she'd been in the
house with her whole family when the bomb hit. So I had my answer, but it didn't help. I
didn't know what to do with myself. Then there was another bombing run. I was fine,
nowhere near it, but there was no way to get word to the countryside. My dad came to
London to track me down. He said my mother was a nervous wreck without me. She was
terrified that if I stayed in London I'd be killed in the war. I felt so guilty that I went back
with him. But I was so angry. I couldn't even look at him. I stayed for five months, but as
soon as the war ended and I knew I could get out of the country, I took off. I just needed to
get away from them. So I showed up on Carlisle's doorstep, threw myself on his mercy, and
he took me in, no questions asked."

I stopped, absolutely spent.

"And that was the last time you spoke to them?"

I nodded. "My mother writes letters, every couple of weeks."

"She misses you. I know you feel they made mistakes. But maybe they do, too. You'll never
know until you talk to them."

I shook my head. "I don't know, Bella. It's been so long…I don't even know what I'd say. I
don't think I could do it."

"Hey, I called my dad. And he's a cop! If I can do that, you can at least call your mother and
let her know you're alive!"

Somehow, after all that, when I just let her see into the darkest part of myself, she managed
to make me laugh. I didn't know it was possible. "Okay, okay," I held up my hand in defense.
"I'll think about it, alright?"

"I guess that's a start," she conceded with a smile before she leaned up on tiptoe and kissed
my cheek. And suddenly everything felt okay.

We'd made it to the market finally, and I held Bella's basket as she hunted and made her
purchases. It gave me a little time to reflect on everything I'd told her. I so rarely revisited
those days in my head, and now that I had, I found that the raw emotions had dulled quite a
bit in the intervening years. I remembered the rage I'd felt towards my father then, but I
couldn't seem to find that same level of anger for him anymore. I was still mad, but for the
first time, I felt like I might be willing to talk to him and see what he had to say for himself.
Maybe not right away, but eventually.

The wind picked up and I raised my head, noticing that during our long, slow walk to the
market, the sky had turned overcast and threatened rain.

"Hey, Bella, look at the weather."

She looked at the sky and made a face. "Oh, it's going to rain! And it was so beautiful this
morning."

Rain…I got an idea.

"Bella, can I ask you for a favor tonight?"

"Like this?" Bella turned away from me, holding Alice's red umbrella straight up over her
head.
"No, lean it back like this," I tugged on the umbrella handle until it was resting on her
shoulder, just like it had been the first night I saw her. The minute I knew it would rain
tonight and we were both free, I knew I wanted to bring her out here to work on the
painting. That, of course, required me to actually show her the painting I'd been working on
when I saw her, which I'd never gotten around to doing before now. She'd been so excited
when she saw it and readily agreed to get Alice's coat and umbrella and pose for me in the
park. But that was before she was actually out in the park in the rain. I think now that she
was standing in the mist, getting blown by the wind off the river, she was having second
thoughts.

She wasn't complaining, though, so I adjusted her pose and hurried back to my canvas to
get what I could down in paint. There was a problem, however. Having her here in front of
me, looking just the same as she had that night when she was such a mystery to me, but
knowing that now she was mine, was becoming extremely distracting. I was painting, but
my mind kept wandering, to how my hands felt gripping her waist, how her mouth felt
when I was kissing her…

Bella was holding her pose, but she was talking to me over her shoulder, asking me
questions about the painting, why I'd picked the spot, what I liked about it. Finally I
couldn't take it anymore. She was telling me how the park had inexplicably reminded her of
her hometown that night and I set my brush down and quietly slipped up behind her. I was
nearly flush to her back when I reached my arms around her waist. She gasped in surprise
and turned in my arms to face me.

"Sorry," I murmured with a smile, "I needed a little break."

She smiled back as I leaned in to kiss her. A crack of thunder rolled ominously overhead.

"Uh-oh," she said. "It's going to storm."

"Don't worry about it," I whispered, dipping my head to kiss the side of her neck, "It will be
a while before it starts."

And with that, the sky abruptly opened up and rain fell on us in torrents. Bella squealed and
shifted her umbrella up to protect us. The wind gusted sharply and flipped it nearly out of
her hands. As she struggled to hang onto it, the umbrella flipped inside out. I cursed and
helped her hang onto it while trying to flip it back simultaneously. By the time we got the
umbrella fixed, we were both hopelessly soaked.

Bella was laughing, her hair hanging limply around her face and soon I was laughing, too.
The whole time the rain continued to pound and the umbrella was doing almost nothing to
keep us dry.

"Oh, bloody hell! Let's get back inside and dry off!" I shouted over the wind. I darted over to
my easel and threw everything back in my bag as quickly as possible before grabbing
Bella's hand and hurrying us out of the park. We practically ran through the streets to
Esme's house. Bella was still laughing uncontrollably and the rain continued to fall, soaking
us thoroughly.

The front door was slightly ajar and the lights were on when we reached Esme's. We burst
into the entryway into the middle of a cluster of startled party guests. We stopped and took
in their stunned faces, realizing how we must look to them, dripping wet and panting,
before we both fell into helpless laughter again. Bella took my hand and practically
sprinted up the stairs. I followed in her wake and we left splatters and wet footprints the
whole way.

"Esme's going to kill us!" Bella gasped breathlessly between giggles.

"Then we'd better stay hidden upstairs!"

We burst into the garret then, and Bella dropped her sodden umbrella inside the door. I
ditched the easel and bag and shook my head, sending a spray of water everywhere.

"Hey! You're getting me wet!" Bella cried. I laughed and caught her around her waist,
pulling her up against me.

"You're already wet!"

She laughed and let her sodden coat slide back off her shoulders into a pile on the floor. I
dipped my face into hers and kissed her. She gripped my shoulders, kissing me back,
pushing my wet jacket off as well. Her cool hands slid back up my arms, over my wet shirt,
up my neck and into my hair. I moaned against her mouth and clutched her tighter. The
atmosphere shifted, our laughter died out, replaced suddenly by desire so thick it filled the
room. My hands fisted into her wet blouse and she sighed against my lips.

Since that day back at her apartment when she'd broken things off for good with her old
boyfriend, we'd taken a few steps forward physically, but I was still cautious. I didn't want
to rush her and I didn't want her to do something that she'd regret later. I wanted her, more
than I'd ever wanted anything, but if she felt bad about it afterwards it would break my
heart. So I didn't push, I kept things light and easy. But now, with her hands moving over
me, when I could feel her heart pounding against my chest, when her lips were on mine like
this, and her clothes were wet and clinging to her, I was having a hard time backing off and
taking it slow.

I felt her hands slip up under the hem of my shirt, resting lightly on my waist, touching my
bare skin.

"Bella," I murmured against her neck, "this is…I'm not sure…"

She pressed her lips to my neck just below my ear, making my eyes roll back in my head a
little. "Edward, I want to."
Her words nearly stopped my heart. I reached up and cupped her face in my hands, making
her look at me. Her dark brown eyes were wide and clear, her face serene. "Are you sure?"

She leaned forward and kissed me softly. "I've never been more certain of anything."

I closed my eyes and pressed my forehead against hers, taking deep breaths, because this
changed everything and if this was going to happen, if we were going to do this, I couldn't
just pounce on her with my out-of-control lust. Not tonight, anyway. I had to do this right
and that meant taking it slow.

"Come here," I finally murmured, taking her hand and pulling her after me to the edge of
the bed. I sat down next to her, slipping one arm behind her waist, pulling her up against
me. With my free hand I stroked the side of her face with the back of my knuckles, tracing
her temple, her cheekbone, the soft edge of her jaw. She closed her eyes and leaned into my
hand, sighing. Cupping her jaw, I turned her face up to me and kissed her again, letting it
slowly deepen and build. When she was making soft whimpering sounds and digging her
nails into my shoulder, I finally allowed myself to unbutton her blouse. I took it slowly, one
tiny pearl button at a time, giving her plenty of time to change her mind and stop me. But
she simply shrugged her shoulders free of it before wrapping her bare arms around me
again.

"I want to feel you, too," she whispered, tugging on the sleeve of my wet shirt. I didn't need
any more encouragement, making quick work of the buttons and tossing it away from the
bed.

I came back to her quickly, wrapping my arms around her, reveling in the feel of her bare
skin against mine, kissing her deeply, and stroking her tongue with mine. I held my breath
as I slid my hands around her back to unhook her bra. Bella dropped her forehead to my
shoulder, breathing deeply, but she didn't stop me. I ran my hands up and down the length
of her back several times until I felt her muscles relax under my hands. Then slowly I
slipped the straps over her shoulders and down her arms.

Cupping her face in my hands, I tilted it up to mine, kissing her softly. "Bella, we can stop."

She shook her head, "I want to be with you, Edward. Don't stop. I'm just….no one's ever seen
me like this."

I laid her back on the bed and she went unhesitatingly. I leaned back just a little, to take her
in, her damp dark hair spread out across the white sheets, her pale skin lit by the dim glow
of the city lights through the skylight, her dark eyes half-closed as she gazed up at me, shy
but not afraid.

"You're so beautiful," I murmured. She smiled softly and reached up for me. I spent the next
twenty minutes showing her just how beautiful I found her, exploring every inch of her
newly exposed skin with my fingertips and my lips. My hands ghosted over her breasts and
she arched up underneath me. I smiled into her hair at her response before returning to
cover her perfect breasts with my hands, to stroke her with my fingertips.

Slowly I bared her further to me, slipping her out of her skirt and her stockings. She let me
lead the way, but she never hesitated or told me to stop.

I returned to her lips, kissing her long and deep and slow as my hands slid down her
ribcage, her stomach, her hips, her thighs, wanting to know every part of her. Slowly I
moved my hand between her knees and slipped my fingers up the inside of her thigh until I
reached the center. She gasped a little at the unfamiliar sensation.

"Shhh," I soothed her, nibbling softly on her earlobe. "Trust me, love. I want to make this
good. Do you trust me?"

Bella closed her eyes and nodded, her head falling back a little as I kissed my way along her
neck. I let my hand continue its mission, gently guiding her where she'd never been before.
Soon I felt her arch up a little underneath me, writhing against me.

"Oh…Edward…" she breathed uncertainly.

"It's alright, love," I whispered, "Let me do this for you. Let go."

She gasped and I felt it break over her. She whispered my name over and over as she clung
tightly to my shoulders and I smiled against her neck. Tonight would be painful and
possibly unpleasant for her, it was important to me that I give her this, so she would know
that it could feel good, too.

As she lay still with her eyes closed, recovering, I stripped out of the rest of my clothes and
retrieved the necessary precautions from the bedside table. As I got it ready, Bella shifted
and looked at me out of one eye.

"What are you doing?" she murmured.

"It's protection, love. It keeps accidents from happening."

She thought about that for a moment. "Oh, I didn't know there was…well, thank you for
thinking of that."

I kissed her gently, "Bella, I'd never put you in any danger."

In her blissful, boneless state, she languorously wrapped her arms around my shoulders,
pulling me down onto her, kissing me back deeply. I shifted into position over her, feeling
her legs tremble slightly against my hips.

"It may hurt, love. I wish it didn't have to."

"I know. It's okay."

"Just tell me if it's too much and I'll stop."

She nodded, squeezing her eyes shut.

I kissed her again. "I love you, Bella."

I closed my eyes, too, and held my breath as I pushed into her. She gasped at the pain, then
whimpered softly and I froze, hating that I had to hurt her. She took deep breaths, her eyes
shut tight, as she waited for it to pass. Then she opened her eyes and looked up at me in the
dark. "It's okay, Edward."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Keep going."

So I did, slowly, fighting against every urge I had to just let go and take her the way I wanted
to because she felt so good. I gave her time to adjust to me, to this, setting a slow pace as I
moved into her. Soon she was sighing softly, almost moaning, moving in tandem with me,
holding onto me tightly and I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing she was beginning to enjoy
it.

"Bella," I breathed in her ear, "I'm almost…I won't last much longer."

"It's alright, Edward."

I let go, grasping her tightly against me as I rocked into her and the sensation flooded
through me. "Oh God, Bella…I love you…"

In the long, peaceful quiet afterwards, I rolled onto my back, pulling her with me, settling
her against my side with her head on my chest.

"Are you alright, love?"

"I'm perfect, Edward. Really, it's okay. Better than okay."

I felt her smile against my chest and couldn't help the satisfied smirk that took over my own
face as I gripped her tighter. She sighed contentedly and within minutes I heard her
breathing level out as she fell asleep. I lay awake for a little longer, just so I could soak up
the exquisite feel of her pressed against me. The happiness and contentment I felt in this
moment left me stunned. I already knew I was in love with her, but now…there was nothing
I wouldn't do for her, no place she could go where I wouldn't follow. I thought back on
painting her in the park that first night and I could only be abjectly grateful for every step
we'd each taken that had led us to each other.
I woke up before Bella the next morning, curled around her, her back pressed to my chest. I
propped up on my elbow, watching her sleep for a few minutes, soaking up the bliss of this
moment. The early morning light was cool and diffuse, making her skin glow like milk glass.
Her hair was a tangled mess since she'd fallen asleep with it still damp, but she still looked
beautiful. I ran my hand over her shoulder and down her arm. Her skin was silky and cool
and I worried that she was chilled. We really were soaked to the skin last night and the
garret was so cold and drafty. I should get her something warm to drink, I thought. Maybe I
could slip down to the kitchen and get the coffee on before Carlisle woke up.

I pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder before pulling the blankets up over her snugly and
slipping out of bed. She never stirred.

I dressed hurriedly and slipped soundlessly out of the garret and down to the kitchen. The
house was silent. I was inexplicably up before everyone, but I was glad, since it meant that I
could do this for Bella.

I got the coffee underway and I was pilfering through the cabinets to see if there was
anything to eat when Emmett's voice startled me.

"There you are!" he said from the doorway of the kitchen. "We were all wondering where
you and Bella had got off to last night. Somebody said they saw you come in, but you never
turned up downstairs."

I rubbed the back of my neck with my hand. "Ah, yeah. We got caught in the rain, so I took
her upstairs to dry off."

Emmett waggled his eyebrows at me. "And that took all night?"

"Shut up, Em."

"Hey, just teasing. Believe me, I'm delighted that you two have finally done the deed."

"I am not discussing this with you, Emmett." I turned away resolutely and fidgeted with the
coffee pot for a moment. He didn't say anything and after a couple of seconds I sighed and
turned back to him, "How could you tell?"

"I can see it on your face."

"Really?"

"The face of a man in love."

I thought about that for a minute, then smiled. "Yeah, I guess I am."

He shook his head sadly. "I'm glad you can make her happy. Lord knows, she deserves it
after that mess with her friend."
"She doesn't talk about it, but it still bothers her," I said.

Emmett was sitting at the kitchen table with me now as we both waited on the coffee. He
was leaning forward on his crossed arms, head bowed.

"Something bothering you, Em?"

"Yeah, you could say that. Last night, before I came over here, I went to a cocktail party with
a guy I know through work. The usual boring shit, you know?"

I nodded and waited for him to continue.

"I saw that asshole, Royce King there."

"How was Rosalie?" I asked, sitting forward urgently. "Did she look alright?"

"He wasn't with Rosalie," Emmett said slowly. "He was with another girl."

I sucked my breath in through my teeth. "But she told Bella that they're getting married!"

Emmett shrugged. "He didn't look like he was marrying anybody last night."

"Bloody hell," I whispered, feeling punched in the gut and wondering how on earth I was
going to tell Bella about this.

"I know," Emmett muttered "I keep trying to tell myself it's not my problem. Rosalie made it
perfectly clear to Bella that she's made her choice and she's sticking to it. But I gotta admit,
this is making me really angry."

"Me too," I conceded. "That bloody bastard. He's ruined Rose and now he's off to do it again
with another girl."

"I don't know what we're supposed to do," Emmett growled.

I dropped my head into my hands. "But we have to do something, don't we? We can't let him
get away with this."

"He's got his goons, though. If we go over there and bust him up, he'll take us out."

"You're right. We have to get at him some other way," I mumbled, thinking hard about
every scrap of information we knew about Royce King. Then it clicked. He was British.
Maybe there was something on him in England. And there was one person I knew that
might be able to find out for me. My father.

"You look like you have an idea," Emmett said questioningly.

"Maybe. There may be somebody in England that could look into the bastard for us. I just
really don't want to make this phone call."

Emmett smirked. "Ghosts from your past?"

I rubbed my hands over my face. "Yeah, you could say that. Hey, Em, can we keep this
between us for right now? Bella's doing a lot better, this will just upset her. I'll tell her, just
not quite yet."

"Sure thing," he said, leaning back in his chair. "But let me know what your friend in
England has to say. What this bastard's doing to Rosalie, it's just not right. I really want to
end this son of a bitch in the worst way."

"You and me both, Em. You and me both."

***

Chapter 19

I woke up slowly, only vaguely aware of the silky sheets which were wrapped around my
bare legs. I felt warm and boneless, and completely relaxed. Rolling over sleepily, I reached
out for Edward, not really processing anything but my immediate need to be close to him.
Instead of his smooth, cool skin, however, my arm fell on an empty space, a warm spot
where his body had been not long ago.

I propped myself up quickly, blinking in the weak morning light. The night flashed in front
of my eyes in frozen, frenzied moments. His hands, so sure and strong, playing my body like
I was one of his pianos. I closed my eyes for a moment and remembered the way he
whispered to me, sweet words of love and comfort as he... well. I had thought about his
body, our bodies in a vague, mechanical sense before last night, but experiencing it was
something quite different.

I glanced down at myself, exposed in the half light, and felt the blood rush to my face.
Collapsing back onto my pillow, I pulled the sheet up to my chin, suddenly embarrassed by
my nakedness, although I was the only person in the room.

It was an odd feeling, knowing that Edward now knew me intimately in a way even I hadn't
known myself before last night. Odd, but liberating. I had been thinking about it for weeks,
and last night everything had just seemed so ...right. Like it was destiny, Edward and me,
coming together in this time and this place. I smiled at my silly, romantic thought and
stretched a little, pointing my toes and reveling in the way my whole body seemed to
pleasantly ache. I was considering looking around for something to wear when I heard the
telltale creaking of footsteps on the garret stairs.
I panicked, thinking it might be Esme or, God forbid, Carlisle. Scrambling franticly for the
quilt, I pulled it up over my head and curled into a ball underneath the covers,
remembering too late that my clothes were still strewn all over the floor, lying where we
had dropped them in our haste. I didn't have time to make a dash for them, so I simply
snuggled deeper under the covers and prayed that it was only Edward coming back from
wherever he had gone.

The door creaked open and closed again, and I heard gentle footfalls approaching the bed.

"Bella?"

The quilt was pulled away from my face, and I squinted in the sudden brightness. Edward
was leaning over me, a tray in his hands and a brilliant smile on his face.

"I thought you might like something hot to drink," he said, setting the tray down on one of
his rickety kitchen chairs and sinking down onto the bed near my knees. He reached up to
cup my cheek with one hand, still smiling, and leaned in for a gentle kiss.

I hummed and reached up to touch his hair, pulling him sideways and into bed with me. He
laughed and landed almost on top of me, catching himself with his free hand.

"Good morning," I mumbled into his lips.

"Good morning," he responded, not moving from his spot above me. "How are you... that is,
how do you feel?"

"A little sore," I admitted, "but not bad. Happy," I added, to wipe the concerned look off his
face.

"I'm glad," he whispered, leaning in to kiss me again.

"You left," I said, after a few minutes of kissing. "I woke up and you were gone."

"I'm sorry," he said, crawling up the bed and curling one arm around me. "I figured I could
make it back upstairs before you woke up." He nuzzled my neck a little, inhaling deeply
before kissing just below my ear. I shivered. "Forgive me?"

I turned in his arms and brought my own up around his neck, ignoring the way the sheet
shifted in the process. "You'll have to make it up to me," I said, trying to use the flirtatious
tone that worked so well when I waited tables. He looked like he was fighting a smile.

"Well, I brought you a coffee," he said slowly. "I even made it to the pot before Carlisle, so I
promise it's drinkable."

"That's a start," I agreed, bringing my hands down to the buttons on his shirt. It annoyed me
that he was completely covered up, while I was wrapped in nothing but a bed sheet. I
flicked open the top three in quick succession, desperate to touch his chest, to feel his skin
on my own. I wanted to be as close to him as I could be, to sink into his skin and never come
out again. Something was triggered in me last night, and I didn't know that I ever wanted to
stop touching him. "But I'm afraid it's just not enough."

His smile softened, and he covered my hands with his own as I went for the last few buttons.

"Bella, we don't have to do this now," he murmured. "You're probably tired, and I know
you're a bit uncomfortable. We've got time, love."

Love. He was always calling me that. He looked at me like I was the only thing that
mattered, his whole world, and every day I felt more like he was mine. I had started to tell
him I loved him any number of times over the last several weeks, but something stopped
the words from actually exiting my mouth. The uncertainty of our situation and all the
conversations we hadn't had yet made me hesitate. There was so much we didn't know
about each other, and so much we hadn't decided. I knew that once I said those words there
would be no going back for me.

So instead of responding, I slid my hands into the gap in his shirt, running my fingers
lighting over his ribs and up over his chest. I leaned in and kissed from his chin to his ear,
whispering a soft, "Please?"

He let out a low rumbling kind of sound, and it brought with it an echo of pleasure from the
night before. I slipped my hands down and finished unbuttoning his shirt, pushing it off of
his shoulders and rolling so I was half on top of him.

"I suppose the coffee can wait," he sighed, kissing a light trail down my neck and fumbling
with his pants as I tried to cover him with the quilt and maneuver him underneath the
sheets with me, laughing freely the whole time.

By the time we got out of bed, the coffee was ice cold.

Edward had a gig at Le Tabou that night, and Emmett, Alice, and Jasper decided to join us.
Since Jasper and Edward were already at our apartment, Emmett met us there so we could
walk over together before Edward's set. He seemed a little quieter than usual when I
greeted him at the door, only giving me a half-hearted smile before settling down on a
kitchen chair to wait. I saw him exchange a wary sort of look with Edward, but the next
minute Alice was distracting me, yanking me by my shoulders into a chair so she could do
something with my hair.

Edward hadn't stopped touching me since he picked me up from the café that afternoon. It
was little things: holding my hand, drawing light, random shapes on my arm as we sat side
by side, or letting his arm drape casually over my shoulder.

Pulling particularly hard on a hunk of hair, Alice leaned in and whispered, "Don't think I
haven't noticed the way you two are looking at each other today."

I glanced up at her, wide-eyed and a little flushed, and she grinned. "Good for you, honey. If
you've got any questions, you let me know."

"What makes you think I would have questions?" I whispered casually, glancing over at
where the boys sat talking quietly. Was I that obvious?

She snorted and then shrugged. "Okay, be that way. Just be careful, and let me know if you
need any advice."

I bit my cheek to stop my smile and shrugged back at her. "Sure thing."

"You know, I don't think the night would be ruined if you just left Bella's hair down," Jasper
groused, after about ten minutes. "She looks fine, doesn't she Edward?"

"She looks ravishing," Edward said quickly, giving me a wink.

"Almost done," Alice said, pulling back a stray strand and sticking a hairpin into the knot at
my neck firmly. "There! Perfection. Don't mess it up." She gave a meaningful glance at
Edward.

He crossed the room in two steps and swept me into his arms, leaning down to kiss my
cheek. "I hate it when she won't let me touch you," he stage-whispered, winking at Alice and
kissing me noisily on the cheek. She made a huffing sound, but I just laughed and pulled
away.

"Alright, that's enough," I said lightly, though secretly I didn't know that anything with
Edward would ever be enough. "Let me get my coat and we'll go."

I turned toward my room when the phone rang.

"Bella can you get that? I need to slip something else on." Alice grinned and took off for her
room without a backwards glance. I groaned. She knew I hated answering the telephone;
my French had improved by leaps and bounds, but I still had a hard time on the phone. She
insisted it was good for my language skills, but I suspected she just thought it was amusing.

"Please?" she called as it rang again.

I sighed and picked up. "Allô?"

There was a pause, and then a sort of strangled gasping sound. I waited, but there was no
answering voice. I tried again. "Allô? Hello?"

"Bella?"
"Yes, this is she," I said cautiously. I hadn't given anyone besides my parents and Edward
this number, and I didn't recognize the voice of the woman on the other end.

"Bella, it's Rose. I need you... to come..." she made and odd little whimpering sound, "there's
so much blood. I'm at the house. Please hurry."

"Rose?" Her normally melodic voice was harsh and gruff, like she had been suffering from
laryngitis and a head cold at the same time. "Rose, what's wrong? What do you mean there's
blood?"

Edward and Emmett were by my side immediately, and out of the corner of my eye I saw
Jasper leave the room quickly, dashing toward Alice's room.

"Bella, the baby," she gasped. "I can't feel him. Please, I'm sorry, I was trying to...please," she
gasped. "He's gone, he just left, I don't think I can..." I could hear her labored breaths loud
and clear through the connection. "Please hurry. I don't know when he's coming back."

"Are you alone?" I asked, allowing Edward to pull my coat over my arms and hand me my
purse.

"Yes," she choked out. "For now. Hurry."

"Sweetheart, I need you to try to stay awake. We're coming. We're going to help you."

"So sorry—"

"Hush, we're coming. Please just hang on. We'll be right there."

There was silence from the other end, Rose's gasping breaths suddenly stilled. I felt my
heart drop to my stomach. I dropped the phone and spun to face the room, meeting solemn
stares.

"Something's happened. We have to go. She said something about blood and being alone,
and the baby," I started talking faster and my eyes burned. She had sounded so raw, and
then when her breathing stopped—"We have to go. Now."

I barely registered running through the streets toward the house where I had last seen
Rose. Edward gripped my hand tightly the entire way there, while Emmett flanked my other
side and Alice and Jasper followed right behind. The sky could have turned orange and the
grass blue for all the attention I was paying to my surroundings. All I was conscious of was
the fact that Rose was hurt, and she had called me.

When we reached the nondescript building, I ran up to the door and pounded my fist on it,
then buzzed the doorbell. There was no response.

"Rose!" I yelled, pounding again. What was her maid's name? I couldn't remember for the
life of me, and in my panicked state, nothing was registering but the fact that Rose was on
the other side of the door, bleeding and possibly unconscious. "ROSE!"

I tried the door but it was locked. Edward pulled me away gently. "Bella, calm down. We'll
get inside somehow. Wait with Alice, please." He spoke firmly and with confidence, forcing
me to meet his eyes. I blinked rapidly, tears falling as I took in deep, ragged breaths.

"Hurry," I begged, backing up and going back to where Alice stood, pale and silent, on the
sidewalk.

Edward, Emmett, and Jasper seemed to have some sort of a silent conversation. After a
pause, Emmett nodded. "On the count of three, then?"

Jasper nodded and looked and Edward, who gave a grim sort of smile. "On three," he
agreed.

"One," Emmett said, squaring off against the door. Jasper and Edward followed suit. I
clutched at Alice's hand.

"Two."

"What are they doing?" I whispered frantically. "They can't just break down the door, what
if Royce comes back?"

"Three!"

The three of them shouldered against the door at the same time and it gave a shuddering
cracking noise.

"Again," Jasper grunted.

"They have to do something," Alice whispered back. I didn't know why we were whispering,
the situation just seemed to call for it. "What else is there? They'll get inside, we'll get Rose,
and we'll leave. Be brave, Bella. Be brave for Rose."

I nodded and watched as the men continued to pound at the door with their shoulders and
backs. It only took a couple of minutes for the door to shudder and swing inwards, chunks
of splintered wood hanging haphazardly off of the frame. I didn't wait for them to enter, I
just bolted up the steps again and into the foyer.

"Bella, wait!" Edward barked. "You can't just go running inside; you don't know what—"

A loud, strangled cry fell from my lips before he could finish his admonition. The gilded
mirror that had hung in the foyer was smashed on the floor, pieces of shattered glass and
splintered wood scattered all over the tile.
"Rose!" I yelled, pushing past Edward, who had stepped in front of me again. I walked down
the hall toward the back parlor where we had sat on that horrible afternoon so many weeks
ago. "Rose, where are you?"

I heard Jasper, Emmett, and Alice come in after us, and the creak of a stair. When I reached
the sitting room, I looked in and gasped again. The arm chair was lying on its side, and a
picture frame lay broken next to it. I picked the frame up. It was a picture of Rose and I
from our high school graduation. More tears streamed down my cheeks as I glanced around
the room for any sign of her.

My stomach turned as I saw what looked like a bloodstain near the fallen chair. It was
enough blood that I knew whoever left it would be in bad shape.

I heard a noise behind me and turned quickly. It was Emmett.

"Jasper's checking out the rest of the house, looking for anybody who might be around, and
Edward's with Alice," he said quietly, eyeing the blood stain with a stern look on his face.
"Any luck finding Rose?"

"No," I said. My voice shook. "I'm so scared, Emmett. What if..." I couldn't finish the sentence.

"Come on, kid. This hall keeps going, maybe she's in another room."

I followed him back into the hall and we continued together toward the back of the house.
The hall opened up into a cozy kitchen, and that's where we found her, curled around the
phone and unconscious, the receiver still off the hook from when she had called me.

The sight of her was almost too much to take in. She was lying in what could only be a
puddle of her own blood. Her light, summer dress was torn down the front, and her bottom
lip was split. Long purple bruises had formed on her slender, white neck.

It was all I could do not to throw up.

Emmett, on the other hand, didn't hesitate.

"Edward!" he bellowed, moving forward in a couple of quick steps and stooping next to
Rose's prone figure. "Get in here!"

There was a rumble of footsteps and Edward, Alice and Jasper appeared in the doorway
behind us.

"Oh my God," Alice gasped.

Emmett had his hand on Rose's neck, feeling for a pulse. "She's alive," he breathed, relief
leaking into his tone. "And she's breathing. But we need to get her an ambulance right
away."
"I'll take care of it," Edward said immediately, picking the phone up from where it lay and
dialing the operator.

"Why would anyone want to hurt you?" Emmett whispered, still staring down at Rose. She
stirred, but didn't wake. He rolled her slightly so she was on her back and tilted her head
back. "What kind of a heartless son of a bitch would do this to a pregnant woman?" I didn't
think he was talking to me, and even if he was, I didn't have any answers.

"Do you think we can move her?" Emmett asked Jasper, who was standing with his arms
around Alice, her face buried in his chest.

"I think we should wait for the ambulance. They'll have some sort of a stretcher," Jasper
answered shortly, squeezing Alice's shoulders as she let out a particularly loud sob.

Edward hung up the phone and turned back into the room, his eyes lingering on me.
"They're on their way. Luckily we're not far from the Hôtel de Dieu. Carlisle is going to meet
us there, and Esme is on her way to Le Tabou to tell them I won't be coming to work
tonight."

"We can't just leave her lying there with all that blood." I didn't know who I was talking to,
but my words had a pleading edge to them.

"We don't know what happened to her or how badly she's injured, Bella," Emmett said,
anger boiling underneath his quiet, clipped words. "It's better to leave her until we can
move her safely."

Edward walked over to where I stood, wrapping an arm around me. "The ambulance will be
here soon. Do you want to wait for them to get here or start walking? If we leave now we
can probably make it there by the time they get her to the hospital."

I clutched his arm anxiously. "I don't want to leave her."

"I'll stay with her, Bella," Emmett said, not looking up. Rose's chest rose and fell in shallow,
even breaths. "If you hurry you can get there before the ambulance."

He looked up, his normally cheerful face solemn and sincere. "I won't leave her side. I
promise."

I hesitated, but when I looked over to Alice, she nodded. "Okay," I whispered.

We ran to the hospital, which I had passed on a regular basis without even noticing. It was
an old, sprawling building situated right on the Île de la cité, close to the park where
Edward and I had first seen each other. Alice came with us, but Jasper opted to stay behind.
He said that he had some basic medical training, things he had picked up from a medic
friend during the war, and if something went wrong he wanted to be able to help Emmett.
Carlisle was waiting for us at the doors when we burst in. "Have they—"Edward started, but
Carlisle shook his head.

"No. I spoke to Marcus when I got here and asked him to watch for the ambulance. I gave
him the name and description you gave me over the phone, he promised to keep me
appraised of the situation."

I looked at Carlisle questioningly, and he gave me an apologetic smile. "Marcus and I were,
well, I suppose we were colleagues during the war."

"Carlisle is a doctor," Edward supplemented, squeezing my hand. "He worked for an

underground resistance cell during the occupation. It's how he and Esme met."

"Not actually a doctor, Edward," Carlisle corrected with a small smile. "I was attending
medical school in Italy when things started to get dicey. I moved to France and I never went
back. Anyway, I did what I could during the war."

Just then, a short, stout man with dark, slicked back hair came scurrying around a corner,
headed straight for Carlisle. Emmett and Jasper followed behind him. I noticed that Emmett
had blood smeared across his shirt, and both of them were looking rather grim.

"She's been admitted and they're taking her into surgery," the man said. "It's a good thing
she was brought in, much longer and she may have lost too much blood."

"Thank you, Marcus," Carlisle said, glancing at Alice and me. "What's the prognosis?"

"Cracked rib, fractured tibia, contusions, possible internal bleeding," Marcus listed off
swiftly. Then he hesitated. "And she'll likely lose the baby. We may get lucky, she appears to
be about six months along... but if we have to deliver the fetus it won't be able to survive
outside the womb. If she's bleeding internally, the situation may be quite serious for
mother and child. Can you contact the girl's family, Carlisle?"

Carlisle looked at me again, and I cleared my throat. "She doesn't have any family, but I
consider her my sister. I'll wait here as long as it takes. What are the chances..." my chin
quivered slightly and a lump rose in my throat, "well, is she going to... to make it?"

Marcus gave a kind of lukewarm smile and patted my hand. "She's in with a surgeon now,
my dear. They're doing everything they can."

He squeezed Carlisle's shoulder, gave Alice a little nod, and walked back the way he came. It
didn't escape my notice that he hadn't answered my question.

The group of us sat in uncomfortable little chairs for the next hour or so, not speaking and
occasionally getting updates through Carlisle or his friend Marcus. Eventually, Marcus came
out accompanied by another man in hospital robes.
"Which of you is the girl's family?"

I stared around the room for a moment before realizing that he was talking about me.
"Here, sir."

"I'm very sorry."

The walls started to close in on me and my ears started to ring. The doctor kept talking, but
I only caught every other word. "Complications... miscarriage... hemorrhage..."

Edward was propping me up, one arm supporting me from my waist and another around
my shoulders. "When can we see her?" he asked. I blinked. See her? The ringing in my ears
subsided a little.

"She's been assigned a recovery room," the new doctor answered. "She's still unconscious,
but we've stabilized her. I can take you to see her now, if you'd like."

Edward looked down at me. "Would you like that, love?"

I nodded dumbly and allowed him to lead me after the doctors. I was only vaguely aware of
the group following behind me. Rosalie was alive. She had lost the baby. She was beaten and
bloody and alone. And Royce was nowhere to be found.

She looked tiny, spread out on her hospital bed. Rose was not a small girl; she was nearly
six feet tall with a strong and willowy figure. In the drab hospital gown, however, with the
bruises on her face and neck, it was as if she had shrunk. She looked frail. Her stomach was
flat and empty, and in her state of unconsciousness her face looked sunken and sallow.

I lowered myself into the chair by her bedside and picked up her hand. It was ice cold to the
touch.

"How did this happen?" I whispered.

"How do you think?" Jasper growled, clutching Alice to his side. "That bastard beat her up
and then left."

"We have to make sure he doesn't find her," I said quietly, rubbing circles in her hand with
my thumb like her Aunt Helen used to when she was sick. "We have to keep her safe."

"Of course we will," Emmett said firmly. "Don't worry, Bella. We're going to make sure he
doesn't come near any of you girls ever again." A fire blazed in his deep brown eyes. He had
always been kind and funny, but in that moment he looked every inch the fighter. I knew he
meant what he said. I nodded and leaned back into the chair, trying to get comfortable in
the rickety old wooden seat.
I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew I was being shook awake. "Bella, we
have to leave the room for a moment." Edward's voice seemed to come from far away. "The
nurse is here, and she needs us to leave. Come on, love."

I nodded blearily and staggered to my feet, setting Rose's hand down on the bed and
following him out of the room. Alice, Jasper and Emmett were already in the hallway.

"What time is it?" I asked, stretching my arms over my head.

"About half past eleven," Edward answered.

I rolled my shoulders back and forward, trying to wake up my limbs from their
uncomfortable slumber. "I think I need to use the rest room. Are you guys going back to the
waiting room?"

"Yes, the nurse said she would come and get us when she was done," Alice said. "Just come
and find us when you're done."

I nodded and headed off in the opposite direction. I wandered the serpentine halls for
several minutes, passing doctors and nurses and plenty of patient rooms, but not one
bathroom. Eventually, I found I had walked in a big circle, ending up back where I started
near Rose's room. I was about to give in and go back to the waiting room when I heard a
voice that made my blood run cold.

"What do you mean you won't let me see her?"

I had only heard the voice once before, but it was burned into my memory. Royce King.

"That's my fiancé in there, damn it. Get out of my way."

"Sir, I'm sorry, but the doctors gave strict instructions on who was to be allowed in to see
this patient, and I don't have your name."

I stepped around the corner and saw him looming over a tiny nurse, doing her best to give
him a stern glare.

"Don't let him in," I said loudly. The nurse and Royce both turned to look at me, surprised.
"He's the one who put her in here."

"Preposterous," he scoffed, narrowing his eyes. "I went to visit my fiancé and found the
door torn off its hinges and the place smashed to bits. I have half a mind to call the police
and report you and your friends for assault and breaking and entering."

The nurse looked between us uncertainly, clearly thrown off by his authoritative tone. I
crossed my arms. "If you don't believe me, go speak to her doctor."
Royce smiled. "By all means," he said, turning back to the nurse. "Go fetch the doctor."

She glanced at me again, then nodded slowly. "Alright," she said. "Stay here." She turned a
left us alone in the empty hall.

I walked up to him, keeping my head held high and refusing to break eye contact. "How
dare you show up here? How did you even know where to go?"

He looked down at me, eyes gleaming. "This is the only emergency room in this part of the
city. I had no doubt when I got to the house and found her gone that she had called you or
your tiny friend for help. I wasn't about to let you take what was mine."

"Yours?" I echoed in disbelief. "She's not a possession. That was your child. Your fiancé, for
God's sake. How dare you? Get out. Now."

He stepped closer to me, invading my space. "She's exactly what I say she is. I get the
impression that you're not afraid of me, Bella Swan, but that is a big mistake." He reached
out in a lightning fast movement, grabbing my wrist and twisting it hard and fast, pulling
me into his chest. I cried out in pain, but he didn't loosen his grip. "Do you know how easy it
was to break her?" he whispered in my ear. "To make her bleed? To make her scream? She
won't threaten to leave again. And you won't take her away from me."

"Oy!" A loud shout echoed from the end of the hall, and Royce turned just enough so I could
see past him to where Edward stood, flanked by Emmett and Jasper. "What the hell do you
think you're doing?"

Edward starting striding down the hall, but Emmett was faster. He looked enraged, and at
the moment I didn't know who scared me more, Edward, Emmett, or Royce.

"Let go of her you sick bastard," he growled, reaching us and wrenching Royce away from
me. He let me go, knocking me off balance so I fell to the floor. He faced Emmett with a
snarl.

"Ah, Mr. McCarty," he said, that unpleasant sneer still frozen on his face. "So good to see you
again."

"Don't give me that, you piece of shit," Emmett spat. Edward ran up to me and squatted in
front of me protectively.

"Are you okay?" he said urgently. "Let me see your arm."

I obeyed automatically, my eyes locked on Royce and Emmett who were still facing off.
Jasper was inching his way behind Royce.

"What kind of a monster are you?" Emmett barked. "You may have your fingers in all kinds
of dirty little pies, but you're done making that girl's life miserable, do you hear me?"
"I don't see how my private life is any of your business," Royce said, walking toward him,
cracking his knuckles. He was distracted enough by Emmett that he never saw Jasper move
into position behind him. It only took a couple of seconds. Jasper had Royce's arms pinned
behind him, and Emmett's hands were at his throat.

"The second you hit a woman, you made it my business," Emmett said, his voice nothing but
a low growl. "Now, you're going to leave. You're going to leave Rose alone, and you're not
going to contact Alice or Bella. You may have friends in low places, but I know a few fellas
too. Don't test me."

Royce struggled against Jasper's hold, clearly furious but unable to speak because of
Emmett's hand on his throat. After a few more seconds, Emmett released him with a jerk.
"Do we understand each other?"

Royce regarded him for a long moment, and then spit at his face. A fleck of saliva hit
Emmett's cheek. He wiped it away with the back of his sleeve, then calmly pulled his fist
back and let it fly, striking Royce square in the jaw.

Jasper shoved him away then, sending him staggering across the hallway.

"Get out," Emmett said. "Now."

Royce rubbed his jaw absently, wiping a trickle of blood away from his lip. "I'll be back," he
spat. "Don't think this is over."

He spun on his heel and stormed off down the hall. Once he was out of sight, Emmett's
shoulders sank down and he turned to face Edward and me. "Are you okay?" he asked
smiling. The hulking man who had just pummeled Royce King was gone, replaced with my
gentle friend.

I nodded, then cleared my throat. "Where's Alice?"

"She went to hunt up some coffee," Jasper answered. "Good thing too, or she'd have been
right in the action trying to throw punches."

Edward made a funny face. "Jasper, was that... did you just tell a joke?"

Jasper rubbed his neck awkwardly and then gave an odd sort of shrug and a sheepish smile.
"Maybe."

Edward laughed and pulled me carefully to my feet. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Who wants coffee?" Alice's voice trilled from behind me. She was holding three chipped
cups, carefully making her way toward us. "I could only find three cups, first come first
serve! I get one, because I'm the one who hunted them down."
Jasper and Emmett claimed the other two cups, and we were about to head back to the
waiting room when the nurse from earlier returned, Marcus on her heels.

"Now where's the gentleman gone?" she asked looking around our group as if she was
expecting Royce to pop out at any moment.

"He left," I said simply.

She gave me a shrewd look before nodding and addressing the group. "I'm sorry, but I can't
let you back in to see the patient tonight. You can come back tomorrow."

"The young lady will have to stay for a few days," Marcus said. "You can come back and see
her tomorrow. She's still unconscious, but there's a good chance she'll wake up tomorrow."

"I want to say goodnight," I insisted, but Edward grabbed my hand and squeezed gently.

"He's right, Bella, we should go home. We can come back tomorrow. Do you know where
Carlisle got to, Marcus?"

"I believe he's waiting for you out front. Take care, my boy, I dare say I'll see you
tomorrow."

He nodded and led me toward the waiting room, our friends following behind us.

"Stay with me tonight?" he murmured, running his hand up and down my arm in a soothing
manner.

"Of course," I said, looking up at him. I smiled in spite of myself. "I couldn't sleep on my own
tonight. Bad dreams."

"I'll keep the bad dreams away," he promised, holding me tighter as we entered the waiting
room. "You'll always be safe with me, I swear it."

I nestled into his side and breathed in his comforting scent. I couldn't imagine ever feeling
unsafe when he was around. "I know."
***

Chapter 20

"Rosie, please wake up." Bella was still holding Rosalie's hand, rubbing her thumb over her
knuckles gently. She was hunched forward over the edge of the bed, her eyes riveted to
Rosalie's unmoving form.
I'd finally managed to pry her away from Rose's side late last night and back to Esme's. She
broke down once I got her home, the stress and fear finally catching up to her, and it was
hours before I'd finally managed to soothe her into a restless sleep. Then she was up with
the dawn, racing to the hospital and back to Rosalie's room.

Rose's condition was unchanged from the night before. Well, unchanged except that she
looked a lot worse. Yesterday there were only the beginnings of bruises here and there.
Overnight they'd darkened and new ones had appeared all over her. Her neck was a mass of
purple. The outlines of his hands were visible around her throat. It made me feel sick just to
look at it. There was also a fearsome bruise spreading across her left cheekbone where
she'd been struck hard. Her arms were peppered in bruises and if I could see her legs under
the blanket, I was sure they'd look the same. Her split lip was swollen and crusted with
dried blood and there was a small cut on her temple near her hairline that had been
bandaged up. Her eyes were still closed but the dark circles under them were pronounced.
She was a stranger to me, and how she'd treated Bella had not made me especially eager to
get to know her, but looking at her beaten, still form in the bed still filled me with rage.

Bella seemed to have put aside their recent unpleasant past, instead focusing on their
shared history. She'd been at Rose's side all day, calling her by her childhood nickname,
smoothing the hair out of her face, entreating her to open her eyes. There had been no
response.

"Love, you should take a break. You've been here for hours," I said, running a hand down
her hair.

"But what if she wakes up and I'm not here?"

"Just a few minutes. Take a walk down the hall and stretch your legs. You can come right
back."

Bella sighed and shifted uncomfortably before reluctantly nodding in agreement. I took her
hand and helped her to her feet. She stretched her arms over her head slowly. I knew it was
wrong to lust after her in our present circumstances, but I really couldn't help it. She just
looked so damned stunning, arching her back like that, her hair tumbling down over her
shoulders. I shook my head slightly to clear the inappropriate train of thought before
taking her hand and leading her from the room. She kept casting anxious glances back over
her shoulder at Rosalie.

"I'm going to the ladies' room," Bella said, rising up on tiptoes to kiss my cheek.

"I'm just going to pop out front for a smoke."

I lit my cigarette and leaned back against the wall of the hospital, closing my eyes and
inhaling deeply. I was sore all over. It turns out beating down doors was not as easy as it
looked. This whole miserable situation was so screwed up and I had no idea what to do
next. What would we do about Rose? And Royce? Everything was swirling around in my
head and the lack of sleep was making it hard to focus on any of it.

"Hey!" Emmett's loud greeting made me jump slightly. He and Jasper were standing in the
doorway of the hospital looking like they had just come out.

"Oh, Em…Jasper, I didn't know you were here today."

"Alice is coming over after work so we said we'd meet her here," Jasper shrugged.

"What have you guys been up to?"

Emmett chuckled. "Recon."

"Huh?"

Jasper shot him a look out of the corner of his eye and smirked. "Well, since we had a little
time to kill, I figured I'd do a little investigative leg work."

"And by that he means flirting with nurses," Emmett grinned.

"Excuse me, dimples," Jasper snarled at him, "I believe the heavy duty flirting fell solely to
you."

"Why were you guys flirting with nurses?" I asked, trying hard to follow the conversation,
and slightly puzzled about this odd new comeraderie that seemed to have sprung up
between Jasper and Emmett.

"I was trying to find out some information about those goons you beat up in the alley a
couple of weeks ago."

"Did you find out anything?"

"Yeah, turns out they were brought here to get patched up. A certain nurse remembered
them and Emmett here persuaded her to share their names."

"Holy smokes, Edward, you really did a number on those guys," Emmett said.

I rolled my eyes. "Don't remind me, please. So you found out their names. What good does
that do us?"

"Well, I'll poke around a little, shake a few trees, see what falls out," Jasper shrugged. "You
never know."

"I guess any information is helpful at this point," I said, taking a last drag on my cigarette
before crushing it out. "I better get back in to Bella."
"How is Rosalie?" Emmett asked softly.

"The same."

He shook his head sadly and Jasper cursed silently under his breath. I left them to wait out
front for Alice and headed back to Rosalie's room. Bella was back already, holding her hand
again, humming something under her breath. I slipped my arm around her shoulders to let
her know I was there and she smiled softly at me.

"Any change?"

"Nothing," Bella sighed.

Then Rosalie groaned audibly.

"Rose?" Bella sat up, clutching at her hand. "Rosie? It's Bella!"

"B-Bella?" Rosalie's voice was a hollow rasp. Then her eyes cracked open a bit and shot
around the room, frantic and unfocused.

"It's okay, Rose," Bella murmured, "you're in the hospital."

"Bella, you're here."

"Of course I'm here, sweetie," Bella said soothingly.

"But after what I did…" Her voice was stronger now and she started in the bed, as if she
were trying to sit up. Bella threw an arm over her shoulders to hold her down.

"Rose, just relax. You'll hurt yourself."

"Oh God, Bella! I'm so sorry!" Rosalie's raspy voice cracked further and tears spilled out of
the corners of her eyes. "I didn't want him to hurt you, too! I didn't mean it! I'm so sorry!"

"Shhh! Rose, it's okay. We'll talk later, now you need to rest."

"Is he here?" Rosalie's frantic eyes shot to the door before skittering back to me. She eyed
me warily, not surprising, I realized, as she didn't know me. I decided to get out of the way
before I upset her any further.

"Bella," I said, touching her shoulder. "I'm going to get the doctor."

Bella nodded in understanding, still gripping Rosalie's shoulders.

"No, he's not here, Rose."

"The baby…" I heard Rose murmur as I slipped out of the room.

"Oh, Rose." Bella's sad voice tore at me as I retreated down the hall. I found Marcus as
quickly as I could and he rushed to Rosalie's room, closing the door behind him. I could
hear Rose's raw weeping from inside as she was told that she'd lost the baby. I stayed just
outside the door, my hands fisted into my hair, listening to her sob through the doctor's
examination, listening to Bella's murmured soothing words. Finally Rose's weeping tapered
off and I wondered if they'd had to sedate her.

"Edward?" I looked up to see Carlisle and Esme coming down the hall towards me. "What's
happened?"

"Rosalie woke up," I said, pointing at the closed door. "It sounds bad."

Carlisle frowned and seemed to consider that for just a moment. "Is Marcus in there with
her?"

I nodded.

"Let me see what I can find out." He slipped inside and Esme came to lean next to me against
the wall. She was wearing a severe-looking dark suit and her honey-colored hair was
twisted gracefully up on the back of her head.

"Carlisle says she has lost the baby," she said.

I nodded. "She's a mess. That bastard really did a number on her. But nothing she can't
recover from. Marcus even said she can still have children someday. And the leg fracture
was so minor that he decided to just splint it instead of putting her in a cast. So there's a
little good news."

Esme stared across the hall at the wall, her expression flinty. "She will come to stay with
us," she said, her voice firm.

"Rosalie? But you don't even know her, Esme. I don't even know her."

"She will come," Esme repeated, her voice harder, "as soon as they let her out of this place."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutement. Edward, you'll make sure she comes, oui?"

"If that's what you want, I'll talk to Bella." I shook my head, at a loss as to why Esme wanted
to move this complete stranger into her house. But the look on her face told me she wasn't
taking no for an answer.
The door to the room opened and Marcus came out, followed by Carlisle who had his arm
around Bella's shoulders. As soon as I saw her I reached for her and she rushed into my
arms, burying her face in my chest.

"She's sleeping again," Marcus said. "It's for the best right now."

"Will she be alright?" I asked.

"In time," Marcus said. "The worst of the crisis has passed. We'll let her go home in a few
days, then all she can do is rest."

Bella let out a raw, humorless chuckle. "Home," she barked. "That's going to be tough."

"Bella, Esme wants Rosalie to come and stay at her house."

Bella lifted her head to look at Esme, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "You would do that
for her?"

Esme reached an arm around Bella's shoulders. "I would do this for both of you. Bring her
to me. It's where she belongs."

"Thank you," Bella whispered, trying hard not to cry.

"Bien sûr, ma chère. Je t'aime," Esme murmured softly against her hair. Bella sagged into
her and I fell in love with Esme and her generous heart all over again.

Once again, I couldn't get Bella to leave Rosalie's side until nearly midnight. Rose woke up
again for a short period in the early evening. I was out scouting up dinner for us and Jasper,
Alice and Emmett had just left, so Bella was on her own with her. She seemed calmer and
more at peace when I came back. Whatever brief conversation Bella and Rose had seemed
to do a lot to put Bella at ease.

She was more alert once we got back to the garret, sitting cross-legged on the bed
scratching Debussy behind the ears. I shed my shirt and climbed onto the bed next to her,
letting one arm drop across her shoulders as I surreptitiously shoved Debussy to the floor
with my foot. She sighed and sank back against my chest.

"Everything will be alright, love. I promise."

"I know," she murmured. "And I have you, so that makes everything better."

I smiled stupidly in spite of myself and folded her into my embrace. Bella twisted in my
arms, snaking her arms around my waist and nudging up under my jaw to kiss my neck.

"Mmm, Bella," I whispered as her little fingers began pulling my undershirt out the
waistband of my pants and up my chest, "that feels wonderful, but are you sure we really
should be…?"

"Edward," she sighed, her voice breathy and soft, "I just want to feel good, even for a few
minutes. And you make me feel good. Is that okay?"

"It's brilliant," I rasped, before I rolled her under me. We'd finally taken this step only to
have the crisis with Rose descend on us immediately. I felt like there hadn't been a chance
for our newfound intimacy to settle in. I was a little worried about being with Bella now in
the middle of everything when she was so emotional, but she was right. Maybe it was
alright to just make each other feel better, even for a little while. And I really wanted to
remind Bella of just how good I could make her feel.

I went faster this time, stripping her out of her clothes immediately, with little preamble.
She didn't hesitate, she just twisted to help me take them off of her before her hands fell on
me, unbuttoning my pants, pushing my clothes off me in the same haste. I kissed her deeply,
trying to keep myself from a full-out attack, but tonight Bella met my eagerness, arching her
body underneath me, twisting her fingers in my hair, moaning softly as my fingers explored
her skin.

This wasn't the slow, tender introduction of our first night together, nor was it the playful
celebration of the next morning. It was urgent, intense, a little desperate. I let myself touch
her, feel her, in ways I hadn't the first time, exploring her breasts and nipples, first with my
fingers, then with my mouth, loving the way she moaned and writhed under me. There was
so much to show Bella, so much she had never experienced and my head swam at the
thought of experiencing it all with her, one incredible night at a time.

I tried to go slow, but her breathy little sounds were driving me over the edge. My hands
moved on their own, pulling her legs apart, my fingers finding her sensitive center, feeling
her, pushing into her. I wanted to stroke her to her climax first again tonight, but Bella blew
all of that out of my mind when she slipped her little hand down between our bodies and
wrapped her fingers around me. I gasped and shuddered and tried not to explode at the
unexpected contact.

"It was no fair," she murmured softly in my ear. "You've touched every part of me, but I
haven't touched you."

"You can…" I swallowed hard as she gave me a surprisingly firm stroke, "you're welcome to
touch me anywhere you like, but if you keep on just like that this won't last much longer."

"Then show me the rest."

"What part, love?"

"The…what did you call it?"

"The…um, French letter."

"Yes, show me how it works."

I smiled a little at her forthright curiosity, but I did as she asked, retrieving it from the
nightstand, showing her how it worked, how it rolled on. I did it myself though, because if
she touched me like that again, I wasn't sure if I'd make it to the main event.

Bella was a marvel. I knew she was innocent, it was highly doubtful that she'd even seen an
unclothed man before me, but now that we'd gotten past her initial hesitancy, she was so
eager to explore and touch every inch of me. And now that she knew what it felt like to be
together, she was eager for more, laying back immediately, pulling me down on top of her. I
went willingly, stretching back out over her, settling between her legs and slipping inside
her effortlessly. There was no more pain, she just closed her eyes and moaned, her head
falling back. I moaned with her, lost in the sensation of being joined with her in this
intimate way. She felt so good, indescribable. Being with her was nothing like it had ever
been before for me. Maybe it was that for the first time, it wasn't just about the physical act.
Being with her like this was all tied up in the feelings I had for her, I couldn't separate one
from the other.

I tried to keep things slow and steady at first, holding her as close as I could, trying to make
this as much about comfort as about lust. She clung to me, her hands running from my hair
down to my shoulders, her nails digging into my back. She whimpered softly and whispered
my name, so softly that I felt it against my neck more than I heard it. It was so erotic,
hearing my name on her lips that way. It made my thinking fog over and before I knew it I
was pounding against her, ravaging her. She didn't stop me, though. On the contrary, she
seemed to ignite under me, meeting my aggression with her own. Her climax broke over
her suddenly and she cried out, wrapping her arms around me and burying her face in my
neck. Feeling her come undone was all it took to send me over the edge with her.

She was nearly asleep by the time I'd cleaned up and stretched out next to her in the bed
again. I pulled her in close, settling her head on my chest. She came willingly, sighing as her
legs tangled with mine and her arm slipped around my waist. I pressed a kiss against her
hair, sure that she was already asleep, before I let myself be pulled under with her.

*
*

A dull pounding on the garret door woke me the next morning. The sparse light filtering in
through the window told me that it was early, far too early for Esme or Carlisle to be up on
their own. That thought jarred me to full awareness. Maybe there was something wrong
with Rosalie, maybe the hospital called…

I scrambled out of bed as gently as possible, trying not to wake Bella. She was so exhausted
that she barely stirred, just rolling from her side to her stomach and stretching her long
pale arm out across my pillow. I fished my pants and my undershirt off the floor by the foot
of the bed where I'd tossed them last night and I was still fastening my pants as I cracked
the door open. I jumped back when I was met by Jasper's scowling, furious face.

"Jasper? What's wrong?"

He cast a quick glance over my shoulder at Bella's sleeping form in the bed before nodding
his head to the landing behind him, indicating that I should step outside. I followed him out
onto the dim dusty stairs. Emmett was there, too, leaning on the railing, looking grim. The
whole thing made my stomach drop with foreboding. I shut the door as softly as possible
behind me.

"What the bloody hell is going on?"

"I stayed at Alice's last night and when I got home this morning, somebody had broken into
my apartment. Trashed the place," Jasper was speaking in a low hiss.

"What? Did they take anything?"

"They tossed my files. I can't tell what might be missing, but I have an idea."

"What do you mean?" I muttered, feeling suddenly cold all over.

"The room was trashed, but this was lying square in the middle of the floor. No way for me
to miss it."

Jasper passed me a photo. It was of Alice, sunglasses on, scarf wrapped over her hair,
leaving an office building. It was taken at a little distance and Alice seemed unaware that
she was being photographed.

"That's the Vogue offices where Alice works," Jasper growled.

"Bloody hell," I muttered, dragging my hands through my hair in frustration.

Emmett straightened up and cleared his throat. "I have a doorman, so nobody made it into
my place but there was a…er, message left there last night."

"What did it say?"

"It said 'Sorry to have missed you, Mr. McCarty.' And it was signed Messrs Santine and
Saroute. Those are the two guys you beat up in the alley."

I stared at Emmett for a moment. "They came by your place??"

"I don't know if it was them or somebody trying to let me know that they knew I was asking
about them yesterday. Either way it's bad news."
"We're being warned," Jasper said. "That asshole is threatening us."

"Goddamn," I hissed, more to myself than to them. I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge
of my nose, trying to process all this new information.

"Nothing out of the ordinary has happened here?" Emmett asked.

"Well, it's Esme's. Everything's out of the ordinary. But no, nothing like that."

"Maybe they hit me and Emmett because we were poking around the hospital asking
questions. Or maybe they're after all of us, which means your time is coming," Jasper
looked steely and absolutely lethal in the dim light of the landing.

"When he figures out Rose is staying here…." I couldn't even finish the thought.

"Yeah, we've already thought about that," Jasper said. "We stopped off downstairs and had
a talk with Esme and Carlisle."

"We need to circle the wagons," Emmett said darkly, "Esme's asked me to move in here for
the time being. To help keep an eye on things. I'll bring my stuff over this afternoon."

I breathed a sigh of relief at the idea of another person, especially one as physically
imposing as Emmett, staying at the house with us. "Thank you. But what about Alice? Bella's
staying here now to be close to Rose. She's by herself at her place."

"She's moving in with me," Jasper said. Then he chuckled without humor. "Of course, she
doesn't know that yet and I have no idea where we'll put all her damned clothes but we'll
figure that out, I suppose."

"Thank you both. I'm sorry you've been dragged into this mess."

Emmett shrugged lightly. "Don't worry about it. I'm the one who decked the guy, and Jasper
held him down for me. I'm only sorry I didn't just finish the bastard while I had the chance."

"Yeah, me too. Still, we have to put a stop to this, somehow."

Jasper and Emmett said nothing, they just nodded in grim agreement.

"You'd better watch your back and stay close to Bella." Jasper said lowly.

I nodded tightly. It made me sick to think about someone coming after Bella the way they'd
come after Jasper and Emmett. "She won't leave my side," I muttered.

"I gotta go," Jasper said. "See you at the hospital later."
I gave them each a nod as they retreated down the stairs. I poked my head back into the
garret, but Bella was still sleeping soundly. She needed all the rest she could get, so I
slipped down the stairs to the kitchen as well. Jasper and Emmett were gone by the time I
got there and there was no sign of Esme and Carlisle. The phone on the wall seemed to
taunt me. It was the perfect time, I knew it. If I waited, there would be people around and
I'd lose my nerve.

I took a deep breath and before I could talk myself back out of what I planned to do, I
picked up the phone and dialed the operator.

"Overseas," I said, when she came on the line. "London, please."

I spit out the number from memory, amazed that after five years of not using it it was still
there in my brain. There was a pause as the call was placed and the silence on the line
seemed deafening. Then the phone began to ring. I nearly hung up in terror. I hadn't
planned this, I had no bloody idea what to say. My breathing was getting shallow and I had
just begun to pull the receiver away from my ear to hang up when I heard her voice.

"Good morning, Cullen residence."

I couldn't speak. Her voice did something to me, made my chest tighten up in some
unfamiliar and completely unexpected way. My whole childhood seemed to flash in front of
my eyes, my mother sitting next to me on the piano bench, teaching me scales; my mother
trying to flatten my hair down on the first day of school; my mother watching me chase Kate
around the backyard, arms crossed firmly over her chest; my mother weeping and clinging
to my arm the last time I saw her, when I was walking out the door, leaving for Paris.

"Hello?" she prompted.

"Hello, Mum?" I finally spit out, my voice raspy.

There was what felt like an endless pause on the other end of the line. "Ed-Edward? Is that
you?"

"It's me, Mum."

"Oh, Edward!" And then she was weeping uncontrollably on the line. I didn't know what to
say, so I just waited. And felt like an utter shit. How could I not call my mother for five
years?

"How are you, Mum?" I finally managed.

"Edward! Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Are you well, Mother?"

"I'm fine, Edward. Are you here in London? Have you come home?"

My chest twisted at the desperate hope in her voice, at her confident use of the word
"home" when she said London.

"No, no, I'm still in Paris."

There was a silent pause. "Of course," her voice was colder, distant. "With them."

I sighed and closed my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose with my free hand. "Carlisle
and Esme. Yes."

She sighed and it was heavy with unspoken words. "You belong with your family, Edward.
Here in London," she finally said softly.

"They're my family," I said without thinking. Then I realized what I said, how it sounded,
and quickly amended, "As well. They're my family as well."

"And what about us? What about your home here?"

"Mother," I said slowly, not sure how this had managed to go so badly so quickly, "Paris is
my home. It has been for a long time."

I could hear her start to cry again and I stifled a groan.

"I just don't understand how you could turn your back on your home and your family. Just
the same way Carlisle did..." she trailed off in a choked sob and I heard a rustling on the
other end.

"Mother? Mum, are you there?"

"Edward?"

I closed my eyes tight. Here it was, finally.

"Hello, Father."

"Why is your mother crying? What's wrong? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Dad. She just wants me to come home."

My father cleared his throat uncomfortably and sniffed. "Yes, well…er….How are you? How
are things there? How is Carlisle?"

"I'm good. He's good. Listen, Dad, I've phoned for a reason," I stopped myself and swallowed
hard, hating how difficult this was. "That is, I called to say hello, but there's also
something…"

"Do you need money?"

"What? No! Nothing like that!"

"What is it then?"

I suppressed a growl. Why on earth did I think this would be any different after five years?
This was pointless. I wanted to hang up, but I'd started now so I had to finish.

"There's a bit of trouble here."

"You're in trouble?"

"No, not me. A friend. Well, a friend of a friend. This girl."

"You've met a girl, then?"

"No. Well, yes, I have, but she's not the one in trouble. It's her friend."

There was a long pause on the other end of the line and I was just about to ask if we'd been
disconnected when he spoke again.

"What sort of trouble is she in?"

"There's this man, Royce King. She got herself mixed up with him and he's…he treated her
very badly. She's in hospital right now. He hurt her. He's a bastard, and dangerous. He
needs to be stopped." I paused but my father didn't say anything so I pressed on, just
desperate to get this out and over with. "He's mixed up in some underhanded stuff, but
nothing we can link him to directly here in France. Plus he's got loads of money and that
seems to make him untouchable here. The thing is, he's English, a Londoner. I was
wondering…well, I wanted to ask if, perhaps, you'd ask around a bit about him there. To see
if anyone there knows something concrete about him."

I held my breath and twisted the phone cord around my thumb while I listened to the
awkward silence filling up the line.

"What did you say his name was?"

"Royce King."

"I see. I don't know that I can help you, but I'll see what I can do."

I exhaled heavily. "Thanks, Dad. I'd appreciate it and I know that Bella…"
"Bella?"

I wanted to kick myself. I hadn't meant to mention her to them at all. The more they knew
about her the more room they had to criticize, to disapprove. I couldn't stand the idea of
that. I'd been down this road before with Kate, and I wasn't about to go down it again with
Bella.

"She's…my girlfriend," I finally said, despairing that he'd just let it go at that.

"Bella. Is she Italian?"

"No, American, actually."

"Hm. American. What's she doing in Paris?"

I rolled my eyes at his pathetic digging for information. "Looking for her friend. The one
who's been hurt."

"What are her plans now that she's found her? Is she staying or—"

I'd had more than enough. I didn't want to stay on the line to listen to him start to pick her
apart, to start digging into her upbringing, her plans for the future, because I knew that no
matter what I said, they'd disapprove of her. And since I already thought she was perfect, I
really didn't care to hear them tell me all the ways in which they felt she was not. And if
they knew I was planning on following her back to America.... I could scarcely imagine my
mother's reaction to that. She'd always had this desperate need to keep her family close at
hand, and the war had only made that worse. America...to her that would be as if I'd died.

"Look, Dad," I said, the exasperation clear in my voice, "I don't know what our plans are
right now. We've been focused on Rosalie and Royce and that's still the priority. What we do
next, where we go, I just don't know. But it's between Bella and me. I didn't call to ask for
your approval of her. I thought with your connections that you might be able to help us out,
but if you're not interested…"

"Edward." His voice was low and full of warning.

"It's alright, Dad. Don't worry about it. Give Mum my love."

I hung up. Then I kicked the wall.

Stupid idea. Why did I expect anything different? Five years and it's just the same as when I
left. That was a pointless waste of time. All I did was make my mother cry and make myself
angry all over again when I'd finally started to be okay with everything.

"Edward?"
I spun around at the sound of Bella's voice. She was standing at the foot of the garret stairs,
wrapped in a silk robe she'd borrowed from Esme the night before. Her hair was dark and
wild around her shoulders, her eyes a bit brighter now that she'd had a decent night's sleep.

"Who were you talking to?"

I held my arms out to her, beckoning her. She came forward unhesitatingly and wrapped
her arms around my waist, burying her face in my chest. I rested my cheek on her head,
inhaling, smelling the faint floral scent of her hair. I loved how well she fit there, just the
right height to tuck her head under my chin. We were like puzzle pieces made to slot
together. Perfect. She's perfect.

"No one. I wasn't talking to anyone, love."

***

Chapter 21

"She looks awful," I said sadly, looking down at Rose's sleeping face.

Edward squeezed my hand but didn't say anything. We were sitting in what had become a
familiar position: me perched at the top of Rose's hospital bed, him behind me, watching
over us and making sure that no one but the doctors and our friends got into the room. He
had been particularly tense since the episode with Royce in the hallway...not that I blamed
him. We were all tense. Jasper and Emmett hovered around the hospital, not coming into
Rose's room but always present on the edges. The two of them had developed an odd sort of
friendship over the last several days. Despite the situation, or perhaps because of it, Jasper
had been more personable, if not more talkative.

Rose was only periodically awake and lucid enough to talk. She flinched away from all of
the men, even Marcus and Carlisle. It was heartbreaking to see what my confident, beautiful
friend had been reduced to. Her bruises were fading from purple into a stomach churning
blue-green, making her look sickly and broken. She was a shadow. And the doctors were
sending her home with us today.

The sedatives they had her on made her groggy and compliant, despite her almost constant
fright. I got her to agree to come home with me only by promising she would be staying at
the home of a lady friend of mine with constant access to medical care so she wouldn't have
to return to the hospital, and that I would stay with her as long as it took. Edward was
ecstatic with the arrangement. I thought he was going to start doing back flips when I asked
if it was all right with him if I stayed in his garret until Rose was well enough to travel.

He had picked me up and spun me in a circle, laughing delightedly when I squealed for him
to put me down. We kissed breathlessly, but when I pulled away his smile was only half-
hearted.

"How long before you think we'll leave?" he asked softly. "Before Rose is ready, that is?"

"We'll figure it out," I sighed, hugging his waist tightly and hiding my face in his chest. It
didn't take a genius to figure out that Edward didn't want to leave, and that he was willing
to sacrifice everything he knew for the sake of our relationship. I didn't like it, but I couldn't
see an alternative. It didn't seem fair. I had come to Paris to find Rosalie, but I had found so
much more than that. I had built a life here, only to have it ripped out from under me as
soon as I got comfortable. If we stuck around for too long, there was always the danger that
Royce would find us and things would get dangerous again. It was a no-win situation for all
of us.

"Does she have any belongings?" Esme asked. I turned around and saw her standing in the
doorway, bright red lipstick flawlessly applied and a stylish hat perched on her head.

"No, nothing," I said. I pushed a lock of her blond hair off Rosalie's forehead. "Alice left
something for her to wear when we take her home, and she's out putting together a care
package with toiletries and other pieces of clothing."

Alice had come to see Rose every day, but only once while Rose was awake. The two of them
had had a stilted conversation, with Alice trying to be cheerful while tiptoeing around the
elephant in the room. After her panicked apology to me when she woke up, Rose hadn't
wanted to talk about Royce. She would only say that he was violent and repeat that all she
had wanted to do was keep Alice and me far away from him. It didn't explain why she had
left initially, and she absolutely wouldn't talk about her baby. To be honest, she didn't talk
much at all. It scared me.

"Marcus said that she would be ready to leave after she woke up," Edward said. "He's
getting us a wheel chair to take her home in."

Rose's eyelids flickered a little, and she stirred.

"Rose," I whispered, placing my palm on her forehead. "Rose, it's time to wake up. We're
going to take you home."

"Home," she murmured. A sleepy smile crossed her face, the first one I'd seen on her since
she left Forks, and then she opened her eyes and it was replaced with a familiar look of fear
and mistrust. "Bella?"

"Good morning, sleepyhead."

Her eyes flicked up to Edward, and he took a step back, releasing my hand and sighing a
little. It disturbed him when she looked at him like that, but I thought that with what she
had gone through it wasn't an unreasonable reaction. He was a stranger to her. Once she
got to know him, I hoped they could become friends.
She cleared her throat and sat up slowly. "What time is it?"

"It's about three in the afternoon, jolie," Esme said, walking briskly into the room. She
patted Edward's shoulder lightly and gave him an understanding smile. "Marcus could use
your help with that chair, Edward. Terrible, clunky old thing."

He nodded and left quickly. Once he was gone, Rose propped herself fully, not making eye
contact with me or Esme.

"I can't tell you how grateful I am, Madame Benoit," she said, her voice flat and lifeless.

"Bah! You must call me Esme. I could never let you fend for yourself, chérie." Esme smiled
softly and sat at the foot of the bed. "You will be safe with me and Carlisle. We'll have you on
your feet in no time."

Rose nodded, but didn't say anything.

"Excuse me, ladies," Marcus said, wheeling a large, wooden wheelchair into the room.
"Mademoiselle Hale, how are you feeling this morning?"

I took his arrival as my cue to leave. "I'll be right outside," I whispered to Rose, squeezing
her hand gently. "As soon as Marcus gives the okay we'll take you home."

She nodded silently. I kissed her forehead and stepped outside, following Esme. Edward
was leaning against the wall in the hallway with his eyes closed. When he heard us
approach, he opened his eyes and gave me a crooked half smile. He reached out his arms
and I stepped into them quickly, letting him comfort me.

"It's going to be okay," he murmured. He pressed a few sweet kisses into my hair.

"What if Royce comes back?"

"Let's just take things as they come." His tone was soothing, but his face was troubled and
he wouldn't meet my eyes.

"What aren't you telling me?" I whispered. He glanced at Esme and then plastered a smile
on his face.

"Nothing, love. Everything is just fine."

"Why don't I believe you?"

Alice came around the corner then, followed by Emmett and Jasper. Emmett was carrying a
large bag on one shoulder.
"Are we ready to blow this joint?" Emmett said, grinning at the two of us.

"Rose is getting her last check up and then we're going to take her to Esme's," I answered,
still looking at Edward.

"I set up that guest room just like you asked, Esme," Alice said. "And Carlisle is waiting with
a hot pot of tea."

Jasper snorted. "Tea. That'll make everything better."

"My mum always thought so," Edward said, then bit the inside of his cheek as if he'd said too
much.

Marcus walked out into the hall and softly shut the door behind him.

"She's ready to leave," he said. "Can one of you gentlemen help me get her into the chair?"

"I think it would be best if the girls and I did that," Esme said. He considered that for a
moment, then nodded.

"Of course. Please give Carlisle my regards, Esme. We'll have to get together soon under
more pleasant circumstances."

"Our door is always open, you know that. You're welcome any time."

She kissed him on the cheek and then strode purposefully into Rose's room. "Come, girls."

Between the three of us, it wasn't difficult to lift Rose into the chair. She had lost weight,
despite her pregnancy, and her arms and legs were spindly. She winced when I
inadvertently touched some of her bruises, but otherwise didn't say anything. Esme
arranged a blanket over her lap, all business and charm. I had no idea where she got her
constant supply of strength, but it amazed me every day. She was telling Rose about her
home and all her favorite neighborhood haunts.

"And when you feel well enough, chérie, I will introduce you to my friends. They will adore
you."

"Esme's parties are a gas, Rose," Alice interjected. "You'll just love them."

Rose snapped her head up. "No more parties," she said, with more life in her voice than I'd
heard so far. "No more parties, no fancy dresses, no more."

Esme took it in stride, sweeping Rose's hair behind her shoulder, and starting to push her
out of the room. "Of course. No one will make you do anything you do not wish to do ever
again. I will see to that."
When we left the room, Edward, Jasper, and Emmett were standing in a tight huddle,
talking in low voices. They stopped talking immediately at the sound of the squeaky wheels
of Rose's chair.

"There she is," Emmett said, beaming down at Rose. "How are you feeling?"

She looked up at him uncertainly. "Do I know you?"

"We've met," he answered, shifting the bag on his shoulder a little and bending over to
extend a hand towards her. She flinched but accepted it tentatively. "Emmett McCarty. I'm a
good friend of Edward's. I'm going to be staying at Esme's for a while."

I narrowed my eyes and glanced between Edward and Emmett, but Edward kept his face
carefully blank, and Emmett's smile didn't waver.

Her eyes traveled over to Edward, then to Jasper. "Who is he?" she asked, her voice
wavering a little less.

"That's Jasper," Emmett answered, straightening up. "He's a lot less scary than he looks."
Jasper scowled and punched Emmett's arm, but Emmett just laughed and pulled a face at
him in response.

"Enough, boys," Esme said firmly. Emmett winked and then turned back to Rose.

"This chair is awfully heavy, Rose. Would you mind if I pushed you back to Esme's? No one
is going to do anything you're uncomfortable with, but we'll get there faster if I do the
driving."

She looked from Emmett to me. I smiled and nodded encouragingly.

"Okay."

On the walk back to Esme's, Emmett, Esme and Alice kept up a steady stream of cheerful
conversation. Rose didn't say much, but I thought I saw a smile on her face a couple of
times.

"Why is Emmett moving into Esme's?" I asked Edward as we trailed behind the others.

"He's over all the time anyway, he might as well move in," he joked lightly.

"Edward," I growled. I grabbed his hand and he looked me in the eye, his smile falling
slightly.

"We'll talk about it later," he said evasively.

"But—"
"Trust me, Bella. Please?"

I stared him down for a minute, but it was obvious he still wasn't going to tell me about
whatever it was he was hiding. Now he was asking me to trust him, to be patient. To wait.

"Okay," I grumbled. "But this isn't over."

He kissed my cheek and we followed silently after the others.

The room Alice had set up for Rose was bright and colorful. Silk pillows covered the bed,
and two big windows faced the back garden.

"Is the room to your liking?" Esme asked, gesturing that Emmett should roll her to the
window. "Much better than that sterile, stuffy hospital room."

Rose nodded and looked out the window. "Thank you. I'd like to be left alone, please."

A flicker of concern crossed Esme's face, but she nodded. "Of course. Follow me, children."

Carlisle waited in the kitchen, looking older and more tired than I had ever seen him. When
Esme walked in, he smiled and stood.

"Is she all settled?" he asked.

Esme smiled softly and walked to join him. "Yes."

"Thank you," I said, speaking to both of him. "For letting her stay, and for letting me stay as
well."

"Ce n'est rien," she said. "There was never a question. I had no choice. For now, you must be
there for your friend. This is a difficult time for her."

Over the next several days, I did my best to follow Esme's advice. Alice and I set up shifts:
when one of us was working, the other stayed with Rose. When both of us needed to be out,
Esme stepped in. Emmett was another frequent visitor, though he was never alone with her.
He brought her books and flowers and other colorful baubles, always trying to engage her
in conversation. Most of the time, she stayed silent.

"It's unbearable," I said. Edward and I were in his garret, a week after we brought Rose
home. "She won't talk to me, not about Royce or anything else. When I mention going home
she clams up even further."

I sat on the bed with a sigh. We were getting ready to go to bed, and I was wearing one of
the little night dresses Alice got for me. Edward sat behind me, rubbing my bare shoulders.
"I wish I could help, but she doesn't seem to be terribly fond of me."

I turned to him and kissed him softly, putting my palm to his cheek. He leaned into my
touch slightly. "I'm sorry. I've told her about you, about us. It's like she doesn't even hear
me. She just stares out the window. The only time I see her react to anything is when
Emmett stops by her room. Even then, it's not like he's making her smile. She's just not
completely blank."

"She's been through a lot," he mumbled, eyes downcast. "I understand, even if I don't like
it."

"I wish I knew what she's been through, but she won't tell me!" I stood and started pacing.
"And how long before Royce finds her here? He doesn't seem like the type to give up easily.
He talked about her like she was something he owned." I shuddered, and Edward came to
stand by me. He stopped me, placing both his hands on my shoulders and stooping so we
were eye to eye.

"Let me worry about Royce, alright?" he said. "You focus on your friend."

I sighed and nodded, but he didn't let me go. "I mean it, Bella. We're past the point where
you can go scampering off on your own and play the hero. If you keep doing crazy things,
something is going to happen to you. You're going to get hurt. Do you understand?"

His eyes burned into mine, fierce and solemn. "What aren't you telling me? Why is Emmett
really staying here?" I asked tentatively. I knew he was hiding something from me, I just
didn't know what. Every time I had tried to bring it up, he squashed the topic swiftly or
distracted me. "What's happened?"

He sighed and wrapped his arms around me, hugging me tightly. "Promise me first. Promise
me you'll let me keep you safe. Tell me I can trust you."

"Edward you're scaring me. I promise, okay? I won't go near him again, I promise." When he
didn't loosen his grip, I whispered, "I swear. Just tell me."

"The morning after we took Rose to the hospital, Jasper and Emmett came to see me," he
said quietly.

I scrunched my eyebrows together, trying to remember. "No they didn't."

"You were asleep." He walked us back to the bed and pulled me into his lap. He arranged us
so that my back was to his chest and my head was resting on his shoulder. "Someone broke
into Jasper's apartment and trashed the place. That same night, someone left a note for
Emmett with his doorman, signed by the two men who attacked you outside of Alice's
place."

"I don't understand."

"It was a message, Bella," he said, frustration coloring his tone. "A warning. Emmett and
Jasper were trying to track them down, to find out more about who they associate with and
what they wanted. We may have scared Royce off for a time, but I don't believe for one
minute that he's gone for good. Now, we're making arrangements to have this place
protected, just in case someone targets us here, and we're going to do what we can. That's
why Emmett's moved in. But I can't be worrying about you all the time. If you see anything
that worries you, if you even think there might be danger, you have to make sure you're not
alone. Will you do that for me? Do you trust me?"

"Of course I trust you," I whispered, turning in his lap. He kissed me feverishly, and I let him
pull me down to the bed, comforting him with my touch the best I could.

The next morning, I didn't have to work at the café. Edward walked with me to Rose's room,
kissing me gently and hugging me before heading down the stairs to the kitchen. I missed
spending my mornings at the market with him, and our afternoons on the river, but Rose
was the most important thing right now.

"Good morning, Rose," I said brightly. She was sitting up in bed, a tray with bread and jam
next to her on her bedside table. "How are you this morning?"

I said the same thing every morning, and she never answered, so I was taken aback when
she responded, "Royce was sweet at first too."

Her voice was rough from disuse. I crossed the room quickly and sat next to her.

"What do you mean, sweetheart?"

"Your English boy," she said, staring out the door where Edward had stood moments before.
"Royce started that way. Sweet, attentive. Loving." She spit out the last worst with venom in
her voice.

"Edward isn't like Royce," I said immediately. "He's been helping me since I met him. I
wouldn't have found you without him. I've told you all about him, remember? He loves me."

She snorted and looked out the window. I wasn't ready for her to stop talking, though. I
picked up her hair brush and motioned for her to turn. She sighed but let me start to brush
out her curls.

"How did you meet Royce?"

There was a long pause, and I was afraid that she had decided she didn't want to talk to me
again, but then she cleared her throat.

"I met him at a school social shortly after I got to Paris. He was there with another girl, but
we spent the whole night talking, and afterwards he took me out for coffee and dessert. He
was a perfect gentleman."

She paused and wiped a few tears from the corners of her eyes. "He asked to see me again. I
agreed; why wouldn't I? He was handsome and kind. I told him about school and home,
about Alice and you. He told me..." She took a deep breath. "He told me that school was a
waste of my time and money. I wouldn't need an education to be a wife and mother. He was
very convincing.

"I stopped going to class. I think Alice knew, but she didn't say anything. She was busy with
her job at the magazine. She asked to meet him a couple of times, but Royce didn't think
that was a good idea. He told me that she was a bad influence. He said she didn't live like a
respectable woman should. "

I made an angry noise in the back of my throat, and she looked up at me with wide eyes.

"I loved him, Bella. At least, I thought I did. All those things I told you about in my letters
were true—he treated me like a princess. Sometimes he acted odd, but I brushed it off. He
didn't like me talking to the other men at the parties we went to. He said it was because
they couldn't be trusted, but soon he was getting upset when I spoke to anyone. He wanted
me to prove that I loved him."

She looked away from me. "He didn't force me. I let him do it to me, I thought it would be
the proof he needed. But after we... afterwards he was worse. He told me that you would
never understand our life here. He demanded that I stop writing to you. You were a part of
my life before. He said I had to get rid of everything from before."

I winced, remembering how my mother had explained her drop in correspondence.

"That was how he got convinced me to move out of Alice's place." She kept speaking, the
words flooding out of her. It was like now that she had started telling me her story, she
wouldn't stop until she had said everything there was to say. "He took me to stay in that
house because he said it wouldn't look proper to live together until we were married.

"I think it was convenient for him to have me there. He would meet men there, receive
packages. When he wasn't around, I would entertain them, although sometimes he was still
furious when he saw me talking to them. I started to find out more about his business. The
men who came to that house scared me, but by then I didn't have anybody else. That's when
he started to get...rough."

I set the hairbrush down and climbed into bed with her. She turned into me and snuggled
into my side. We lay there quietly. I rubbed her back as she struggled to control her
breathing.

"At first he just pushed me."

Her words were a little muffled by my blouse, but I didn't want to move. I just let her talk.
"It was almost accidental. He always apologized. He told me that he didn't mean to. Then he
started to grab me. He'd leave marks on my arms and legs. I started wearing longer skirts
and dresses with long sleeves. Then one day... he slapped me."

She closed her eyes tightly and more tears leaked out.

"I told him I didn't want to attend a party that night. I was tired. He slapped me across my
face and then told me that it was my fault, that I should have done as he asked and it
wouldn't have happened."

I rocked her gently, furious that something so horrible could happen, to Rose of all people.

"After that night I was going to leave. I couldn't imagine living like that anymore. I was
going to leave him and go home. That's when I found out I was pregnant.

"I couldn't leave then. Don't you see? I had to do what I could for my baby. I thought... I
thought even Royce was better than no father at all. I had to be smart. I couldn't afford to
make him angry now that there was a child involved."

"Why didn't you tell me any of this when I visited?" I whispered.

"Don't you see?" she said again, desperately. "If he had found you there, he would have hurt
you, maybe even killed you. You don't know what he's capable of. I couldn't let him know
that you had found me. I had to protect you."

"It's okay," I soothed. "I understand. I forgive you. Shhhh."

"It didn't matter," she cried. "Last week I had finally had enough. I told him I was leaving
him. I was going to find you. He snapped. I thought I was going to die... I would have
deserved it for what I did to you and what I exposed my child to. And now my baby's gone."

She wept openly, tears streaming down her cheeks and disappearing into her pillowcase
and soaking my blouse. "It's only a matter of time until he finds me. There's nothing
anybody can do anymore."

"That's not true." Esme stepped forward into the room, and Rose and I looked up in
surprise. She smiled sadly. "I am sorry, I did not mean to eavesdrop."

"What did you hear?" Rose asked dully.

"Enough." Esme sat in the chair I had just vacated. "Did Bella tell you that I'm married?"

Rose sat up a little and wiped her eyes. "You're married to Carlisle, of course."

Esme laughed. "No. Not to Carlisle. When I was 16 years old, my parents arranged for me to
marry a man named Pierre Benoit. He was in his late 20s, and he had enough money to take
care of me. He certainly had more money than my parents." She paused, then looked Rose
straight in the eye. "We weren't married more than a year before he started to beat me."

Rose closed her eyes and turned away, but Esme leaned forward and grabbed her hand,
forcing Rose to look at her.

"There was nothing for me to do. He was my husband before the law and in the eyes of God.
The priest in my village urged me to obey my husband's will. My parents believed that I was
lying; I was not quiet about my objections to the marriage."

She spoke matter-of-factly about these past horrors, staring Rose down.

"I lost a child too," she said softly. "My husband got a little...enthusiastic with his fists one
night and I went into an early labor. A little boy. I did not love my husband, but I loved that
child with all my heart. He was born early, too tiny." She got a haunted, faraway look in her
eyes, and a lone tear trailed down her cheek. She took a deep breath and cleared her throat.

"He took a piece of me with him when he went. I knew in that moment that I could not stay.
If I had stayed there a moment longer I would have joined my sweet boy in the churchyard
before another year had passed. And so I left."

Despite the fact that Rose had begun all this by telling me her story, I felt like I was
intruding on something sacred. She and Esme were connected by a common bond of pain
and lost motherhood I couldn't begin to understand.

"What did you do?" Rose whispered.

"I came to Paris," Esme said.

"All alone?"

"Yes, all alone. I was not as fortunate as you." She smiled warmly at me and patted Rose's
hand. "I made it. I survived, and not only that, ma chère, but I flourished. I became Esme
Benoit, muse and lover of the arts. I built a family of sorts out of my friends here in Paris.
My husband took away any chance of normal family, I'm afraid. I can't have children of my
own anymore, but I managed nonetheless."

"But you're still married to him?"

Esme waved a glittering hand. "A technicality. The church frowns on divorce."

"Did he... did he ever come looking for you?"

"Once, about a year after I came to Paris. By then I was living in this house with a dear
friend. I relied on my friends to shelter me and keep me safe."
She laughed suddenly. "Don't let anyone tell you that artists are weak or spineless. My
ragtag group of painters and poets gave that fils de pute quite a welcome. I never heard
from him again."

"Pain is a part of life," she said, serious again. "It is what makes us human; it shapes us the
same as love and laughter. You don't have to forget, but you cannot let it destroy you.
Conquer the pain, don't let it conquer you."

Rose leaned back on her pillows and closed her eyes. "I'm tired," she said quietly.

Esme smiled and placed a hand on her forehead. "Sleep. Bella and I will let you rest."

I kissed Rose's cheek and followed Esme out the door. She closed it behind us and then
turned to me.

"I don't know what to do for her," I said. Esme smiled sympathetically and put her arm
around my waist, leading me down the stairs.

"You are doing a wonderful job," she assured me. "She just needs time. Time, and
understanding. Can you give that to her?"

"Of course I can," I said immediately.

"Good girl. Edward is still downstairs, why don't the two of you go out for a bit? I'll keep
Rose company. Emmett will be home soon as well. She won't be alone."

When we got to the kitchen, Edward was sitting there with Carlisle talking seriously. He
turned when we entered and beamed at me.

"How would you feel about going for a walk with me?" I asked him. He jumped to his feet.

"That sounds perfect," he said. "You spend too much time holed up in that room upstairs."

He reached out for my hand, and with his touch the panic and sadness I had felt upstairs
evaporated. It was always like that with Edward.

"We'll be back," Edward called as he led me out of the kitchen. "Where would you like to
go?"

"Can we just walk?" I looked up at him, and he smiled. "Wander the streets without a plan?"

He laughed. "How about we wander over by the river?"

I shrugged. "Okay."
We ended up at a bench by the Tuileries, quietly watching the river flow past us. We hadn't
spoken much as we walked. I was reflecting on everything Rose and Esme had said. It was
almost too much to process in one sitting. There was so much danger in the world. Before, I
had thought that the worst fate I could suffer was a life of boredom in a little town. Jacob
looked like a prize next to Royce and Esme's husband. And Edward...

Edward sat silently, not pushing conversation, content to hold me for a while in the bright
sunshine. He was the picture of patience. He loved me with his words and his actions every
day. He would give anything to protect me. He was willing to give up everything he knew.
And I gave him barely anything in return.

I felt like crying when I thought about how much I held back with him. I gave him my body,
but he deserved my heart and soul. No, that wasn't right. He had my heart and soul. He just
didn't know he had them.

I cleared my throat and he looked down at me in concern. "Are you okay?"

"I'm wonderful," I said. I turned on the bench and wrapped my arms around him, my legs
half in his lap. "Edward, I need to tell you something."

He lifted one eyebrow at me, concern painting his features even as he smiled at me. "What
is it? You can tell me anything."

"I just wanted you to know..."

It was ridiculous that these three words were so difficult to say. I wondered if it was
because I had never said them to anyone but my parents before or if it was just nerves. I
looked into his eyes and steeled myself.

"Edward, I love you."

His eyebrows got impossibly higher before he broke out in a brilliant smile.

"Say it again," he begged.

"I love you," I said, more forcefully this time. His smile grew, and he ducked down to kiss
me. His lips were urgent on mine, and I forgot that we were on a public bench, sitting in full
view of passersby, as his arms wrapped around me and my feet left the ground.

After a few minutes of breathless kissing, he pulled away laughing. "I love you," he said
fervently. His green eyes sparkled down at me.

I laughed delightedly. Saying the words out loud had lifted a weight from my chest. I felt
light and free. We practically skipped home, lost in our own world of smiles and murmured
declarations. The sun was setting when we arrived back. Edward pushed through the front
door, still grinning from ear to ear. He pulled me into the kitchen and then stopped
abruptly.

"Edward, what—"

I looked up and registered that there were three people in the kitchen instead of the two I
expected. Carlisle and Esme stood near the center of the room, facing an unfamiliar man. It
was this man that Edward was staring it, his expression frozen.

The man was tall, taller than Carlisle and almost as tall as Edward. His dark brown hair was
carefully parted on the side and slicked back. He looked vaguely familiar; there was
something about the slope of his nose and the pout in his lips. He turned toward Edward
and me. After giving me a cursory glance, he stared at Edward. His eyes seemed to take in
every little detail, full of some strange unnamed emotion.

Finally, Edward spoke.

"Dad?"

I gasped and dropped Edward's hand in shock. It came together then, the familiar features
of his father were reflected in Edward's face, and to some extent, in Carlisle's.

"Edward," the man said. "It's... it's good to see you, son."

It was clear to me that his father was nearly overcome with emotion, but Edward seemed to
harden at the sound of his father's voice. He took a half a step in front of me and addressed
him.

"What are you doing here?"

"You called me because you needed help," he explained. "You're my only child. You didn't
expect me to just ignore that, did you?"

Edward pressed his lips into a thin line, and his father turned his gaze to me. He smiled at
me. It was an echo of his son's smile, genuine and warm.

"You must be Bella," he said. "It's a pleasure to meet you, my dear."

I looked from Edward to his father and back again. When Edward made no move to speak, I
stepped around him and extended a hand. "Pleased to meet you, sir."

Amusement sparked in his eyes, but he took my hand and shook it. "That's a firm
handshake you have. Edward tells me you're American. Where are you from?"

"Washington State."

"I've never had the pleasure of visiting the States," he said, looking over my shoulder at
Edward. I turned to see what he was staring at. Edward was glaring now, not bothering to
cover up his distain.

"I haven't spent much time outside my hometown, I'm afraid." Edward's frozen scowl was
starting to worry me. "I like Paris very much, though."

"And how long have you been in Paris, Bella?"

The question seemed to snap Edward out of his stupor.

"I don't know why you're here, Father," he started.

"I already told you—"

"But Bella and I have plans for the evening. I'm sorry, but whatever you've come to say will
just have to wait."

I turned to him with wide eyes. "What are you talking about?" I hissed.

"Come, Bella," he insisted. He grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the stair. It was all I
could do to give Mr. Cullen a nod as we left the kitchen. He smiled sadly as he watched us go.

When we got to the top of the stair, Edward made straight for the bottle of scotch that he
kept high on a shelf. He splashed a few inches into a glass and collapsed into a chair. I
watched in disbelief as he threw back the glass and drank it in one gulp. He stared at the
empty glass, then grabbed the bottle again. Before he could pour more liquor into the glass,
I strode across the room and put my hand on top of his.

"Stop," I commanded. His eyes were clouded and angry, but they softened as he looked at
me.

"Stop," I said again. I pushed the glass and the bottle away and got closer. "I don't
understand why you're so angry, Edward. Why is he here? What did he mean about you
calling him?"

He took a deep breath and sighed. "It's a long story."

I smiled and sat down on one of the rickety kitchen chairs. "I have time."
***

Chapter 22

I pulled the bottle out of Bella's grasp and managed to refill my glass before she snatched it
back away from me. I sighed and tossed back the scotch, welcoming the burn in my throat,
welcoming the way it blunted my raging emotions.

Bella had settled back in the kitchen chair, staring at me expectantly.

When I said nothing more, she huffed and crossed her arms over her chest. "Tell me what's
going on, Edward."

"It's nothing. I called him last week to see if he could hunt up any information on Royce for
us. But it…well, it wasn't a great conversation, I suppose you could say."

"What does that mean? What did he say?"

I threw my hands up in the air in disgust. "Oh, all the usual rubbish."

"Edward, talk to me. What's the usual rubbish? I know you have a difficult history with your
father, but I'm not sure I understand what's going on now. Why are you so angry with him?"

"I called to ask him for help with Royce and he was more interested in judging me on my life
and the choices I've made. But that's nothing new. It was stupid of me to expect anything
different."

Bella sat back, her eyebrows knit together. "But…Edward, I know you're saying he wasn't
interested in helping us, but he's here. He just dropped everything and came to France
because you said you were in trouble. To me, that says he cares quite a lot."

"Yes, but Bella, didn't you see what he was like down there? How he was with you? Asking
you all that stuff about your hometown and what you're doing here in Paris? You don't
know him like I do. He was judging you, and by extension, me."

Bella snorted abruptly. "Edward, you're being absolutely ridiculous. He was perfectly
lovely. He was just being polite. Forgive me for saying so, but I think you're a little overly
sensitive where he's concerned. I know that a lot of things happened with Kate and I wasn't
there for that and didn't see what happened. But I saw him for myself tonight and Edward,
your father cares for you. He came here because you said you were in trouble and he wants
to help. That's what parents do."

I didn't say anything for a long moment as I digested what she said. I still thought he
disapproved of Bella. She was too kind and unquestioning to see that for herself. But what
she said about him showing up here… she might have had a point about that. He did come.
That might mean something.

Bella leaned forward and took my right hand in both of hers. "Can we go back down and
talk to him again? He might actually know something about Royce. You didn't let us stick
around long enough to find out."
That made me feel like an utter prat, because she was right. I was so caught up in all my old
bitterness and anger that I lost sight of the big picture. We still had to deal with Royce and
he might be able to help.

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "I'm sorry, Bella. A lot of really bad stuff
happened between us and it's not something I can let go of easily."

"I'm not asking you to let it all go. At least not this instant. Just come downstairs and talk to
him. See what he has to say. Just give him a chance, Edward. He might surprise you."

I secretly thought that was extremely unlikely, but I nodded my head reluctantly. She was
right; I had to go talk to him. She leapt to her feet and pulled on my hand, dragging me up
out of the chair.

"I'm not promising anything, but I'll talk to him and see what he has to say. That's all."

She leaned up and kissed me on the cheek. "That's all I'm asking." I smiled back down at
her, summoning her words in my mind again. I love you. She loved me. My heart felt like it
would explode with the knowledge. And armed with that, I felt like I could face anything
that waited for me in the kitchen.

I sighed and let her pull me along after her and down the garret stairs.

I re-entered the kitchen right behind Bella, looking around cautiously. My father was still
there, sitting at the table with Carlisle and Esme with a cup of tea in front of him. All three
heads swiveled towards us expectantly as we came in. I half-expected my father to start
yelling as soon as I made a reappearance, but he didn't. He just watched me, perhaps a bit
hopefully. I had no idea what to say, but Bella seemed to sense that and started talking as
soon as we made it in the door, her voice a little high and falsely bright.

"Sorry about that, Mr. Cullen. Edward thought we had something urgent to get to, but he
was mixed up about the days."

"I'm so happy to hear that. Will you two sit down then so we can catch up?" He was smiling
at Bella, nothing but polite goodwill on his face. She smiled back and readily crossed the
kitchen to take a seat in the chair across from him. I followed more slowly, crossing behind
her, letting my fingers linger on her shoulder as I fell into the chair at her side. My father's
eyes flickered to me and then away. Silence stretched out and it began to feel awkward in
the kitchen.

"Why don't I make another pot of tea?" Carlisle said smoothly, rising and heading for the
stove. Esme murmured her assent and Bella nodded. The silence came back right away,
though, and I was determined not to be the one to break it. Bella turned her head to look at
me, eyebrows raised expectantly. I just scowled back and leaned back in my chair. She
huffed softly and turned to give my father another polite smile.
We were all saved from the endless awkward silence by the sound of the front door opening
and slamming shut and Emmett's loud voice booming through the first floor.

"Knock, knock! Anybody home?"

"In here, Emmett, darling!" Esme called back. As Emmett's footsteps grew louder I could
make out the low chatter of Alice's voice, too. Emmett entered the kitchen with both Alice
and Jasper in tow. All three of them stopped short, looking mildly surprised to find so many
people in the kitchen when it was so quiet.

"Everyone is here!" Esme cried, standing and crossing to Alice, kissing her cheek.

"I came by to check on Rose," Alice explained, glancing curiously at the kitchen table.

"I brought these," Emmett waved a bunch of daisies he was carrying, "thought they might
cheer her up, you know?"

"How kind, darling," Esme said, patting his arm, "I'm sure she will love them."

"We didn't know you had company or we'd have knocked for once!" Alice laughed.

"Ce ne rien," Esme said with a shrug. "This is Carlisle's brother and Edward's father, Edward
Cullen, Sr."

Three pairs of eyes shot at me in surprise. I just shrugged and looked away.

"Edward," Esme said to my father, "These are some of Edward and Bella's friends, Alice,
Emmett and Jasper."

My dad stood and Emmett crossed the room in a flash, all big smiles and firm handshakes.
Alice went to help Carlisle with the tea and Esme started directing Jasper to pull up some
more chairs.

"What brings you to Paris, Mr. Cullen?" Emmett asked, "Aside from Edward here."

I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes. When Alice stepped up to Bella's side to set down her
tea the two of them had one of those silent eyebrow/ scowling conversations they
sometimes had. I felt like there were two entirely different conversations happening in the
room. The one you could hear which was all polite introductions and how-do-you-take-
your-tea? And the other was the silent one, full of questions and resentment and lots of
things left unspoken.

My father cleared his throat and leaned forward on his elbows.

"Well, Eddie called me and asked me to look into someone for him. Said he'd gotten a friend
of his into a spot of trouble."
Emmett sat back in his chair beaming, looking from my father to me. "You call him Eddie,
too?"

"Shut up, Emmett," I snapped. Emmett just chuckled and winked at me. He bloody winked.

"How is your friend, dear?" my father was asking Bella, his face all concern and
consternation.

"She's doing much better, thank you. Well, physically anyway. She's staying here, actually.
Upstairs."

My father shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his eyes darting to the ceiling. His reaction to
the news that Rosalie was so nearby made me edgy, so I decided to just plunge in and start
talking, so we could move this nightmare along.

"Have you heard anything, Dad?"

He cleared his throat again before exchanging a brief glance with Carlisle. "Yes, actually."

Alice and Jasper sank into chairs behind Bella and I. Everyone busied their hands with their
teacups, waiting for my father to continue.

"I began to make discreet inquiries right after your call, Eddie. The first thing I found out is
that Royce King is married and has a family in England."

Bella and Alice gasped in unison, and Bella clamped a hand down over her mouth. I groaned
and reached out to take her other hand. Just when it seemed the news couldn't get any
worse, it always seemed to.

"That rat bastard!" Alice hissed.

"Poor Rose," Bella whispered.

"Well, it's not like there's a chance in hell that she's going to marry him at this point, so
what the hell does it matter?" Emmett growled, his face stormy.

"It will break her heart. He lied to her, betrayed her right from the start," Bella said softly.
"There wasn't a moment that he ever really cared for her."

Emmett huffed and shifted in his chair, muttering under his breath, something that
sounded like "Fucking kill the bastard."

"We have to tell her, Alice," Bella murmured.

"I know," Alice said quietly, her hand on Bella's shoulder.

"Tomorrow," Bella murmured. "She was really upset this morning. I don't want to push her
too much."

Alice nodded her assent.

I leaned forward, gripping Bella's hand tighter. "What else?" I asked my father.

He sat back and looked at his hands. "It was quite difficult to find out anything of substance
about the man. He comes from a good family, very respectable, very old. But they've run
short of money this last generation. He's had to make his own way. There were lots of
insinuations that he took a less than honorable route to that, but nothing concrete, I'm
afraid. He seems to be quite good at glossing over his misdeeds with a veneer of
respectability."

Jasper snorted, "Yeah, we've encountered the same thing here."

"Have you spoken to the authorities? At least about this last sad bit of business with…I'm
sorry, what is your friend's name?"

His question was directed at Bella but Emmett answered first, "Rosalie."

"Lovely name," my father smiled, "Rosalie. Has she spoken with the authorities about what
happened?"

"No, we—" Bella began, but Emmett cleared his throat to interrupt her. We all turned to
look at him.

"Well," he said, reaching up to rub the back of his neck in discomfort, "I might have done
that."

"You did?" I asked. "When did this happen?"

"When Rose was first taken to the hospital. We were there all night. Me and Jasper were just
waiting. So we took off to the local gendarmes station."

"I can't believe you didn't tell us, Em," I said, straightening up in my chair, wondering why
the hell he'd withheld this from us.

"I didn't want to upset the girls any more than they already were."

"Why would we have been upset?" Alice said sharply, cutting her eyes from Jasper to
Emmett and back again.

Jasper growled and pushed back from the table. "The assholes wouldn't do a goddamn
thing. Sorry, ladies," he said gruffly, once he realized what kind of language he'd just used.
"It was a domestic disturbance between two non-citizens so they said it was none of their
concern. I guess the fact that the bastard nearly beat her to death was beside the point!"

Bella's face flushed with anger and her eyes glistened. I was afraid she might cry. I touched
her shoulder but she shrugged me off, shaking her head fiercely.

"So it seems we're really on our own with this," she hissed.

"We've got to put a stop to this bastard," Emmett said. "There's got to be some way to get at
him, a weak spot somewhere."

My father cleared his throat again. "I'd suggest you shift your focus from Mr. King to his
associates."

"What do you mean?" I asked. For just a moment, the surreal nature of this moment swirled
around me: that after five years of silence, I was sitting at Esme's kitchen table having a
conversation with my father. I knew the circumstances that had brought us here were
unusual, but I still never thought we'd manage this. And I had to admit, so far Bella was
right. He was just trying to help us.

"Royce King seems to have done a good job of insulating himself from the scrutiny of the
authorities, both in England and here. But surely his associates don't have the same
resources or abilities. He does business with criminals. The trick will be to bring down one
of them. Perhaps that person would be willing to tell what he knows about Mr. King if he
were facing the wrath of justice himself."

We all sat in silence for a long moment, considering what my father had said. He was dead
right. I glanced up and caught Jasper looking at me. There was a silent moment of
communication, I understood he wanted to say something but not here. He had an idea, I
knew it.

"But how are we going to do it? And who do we go after?" Bella pressed.

"You aren't doing anything," I said quickly. "Remember that promise you made me to stop
seeking out danger?"

She scowled and looked at her hands, but I put a finger under her chin and raised her face
to look at me. "Bella, remember the alley? These blokes aren't fooling around. I couldn't
bear it if something happened to you. Truly."

Her face softened and she gave me a weak little half-smile.

"Let's table this until tomorrow," Emmett interjected suddenly. "I'm sure your father is
tired after his trip, Edward. Bella, would you and Alice mind taking my flowers up to Rose? I
don't want to intrude on her."
Bella paused like she was going to say something, but then she just shook her head slightly
and got to her feet. "Come on, Alice. I do want to check on Rose. She had a hard morning."
Alice's face creased with worry and she rose swiftly to her feet to follow Bella back up the
stairs.

I half-expected Emmett or Jasper to start talking once the girls were out of earshot, but
Emmett immediately started asking my father innocuous questions about his trip to Paris
and I understood that whatever he and Jasper wanted to say would be said with just the
three of us present.

"Are you tired, Dad? From the trip, I mean?"

He looked surprised at my polite inquiry and it made me wonder exactly how much of an
ass I'd been today. "I am, rather. I'm not terribly fond of sea crossings, I'm afraid. And it was
rather a long trip on the train from Calais."

Esme stood abruptly, "Please, Edward, let me show you to your room. You should rest
before dinner."

My father stood and smiled warmly at Esme. I knew my parents didn't approve of Esme.
When Carlisle first told my parents about her right after Liberation Day, my mother had
referred to her as "that French woman Carlisle has taken up with", and I know she blamed
Esme for keeping him in Paris after the war. My father didn't talk about her, but since he
never argued with my mother, I'd always assumed he resented Esme as much as my mother
did. But if I was reading him right, he liked her. It wasn't surprising; it was truly impossible
to dislike Esme. But there was also an air of familiarity that I didn't understand, since I was
fairly sure he'd never let her before today.

Esme started towards the stairs with my father and Carlisle right behind her. I stood up
quickly.

"Dad," I said impulsively.

He turned to look back over his shoulder at me.

I choked on the words for a minute, but I made myself say them, imagining Bella holding my
hand and making me. "Thanks. For coming. And trying to help."

He cleared his throat and looked down at the ground briefly, discomforted a little. "Of
course, Edward. What else would I do?"

We didn't say anything else to each other. That was already more than we'd managed in
half a decade. He just left the room behind Esme and Carlisle.

The kitchen fell quiet for a few minutes as Emmett, Jasper and I sank back in our chairs.
"You got an idea there, Jasper?" Emmett finally asked. "Because it looked for all the world
like you did."

"I do," he said quietly.

"What?" I asked.

"We need to go after James," he finally said slowly. "We know he's dirty through and
through. I know he's a blackmailer. I suspect he does it to order. Probably for Royce King.
Royce would need a nice quiet way to get important people to do his bidding and look the
other way while he goes about his dirty business."

Emmett nodded slowly. "Makes sense."

"How do we nail James, though?" I asked, more to myself, as I turned it over in my head.

Jasper shrugged. "Your dad's right. He's dirty and he's probably less careful about covering
his tracks. If we get him busted, then maybe he rolls over on Royce to save his own skin."

Then it hit me with a cold chill. I knew exactly how to get James.

"The drugs," I finally said. "He deals, and he deals at Le Tabou. We know that for sure. We
need to make sure he gets caught doing it."

Emmett exhaled through his teeth. "Are we talking a sting?"

Jasper nodded in understanding and approval. "I think we are."

"This is dangerous as hell," I pointed out.

"We don't have a choice," Emmett sighed. "We have to stop him. He'll just do it to another
girl. Hell, he may have more women set up in houses all over Paris as we speak."

Jasper cursed softly under his breath at that part.

"Okay, we'll do this," I said, "But it's just us. The girls stay out of it."

"Absolutely," Jasper snapped quickly. "I don't want Alice anywhere near this shit."

"I'm playing tonight," I said. "I'll put an ear to the ground, see if I can figure out who's
playing and when. Hopefully an opportunity will present itself."

Jasper and Emmett nodded solemnly.

"In the meantime, I'll see if I can find out if James has any regular customers that frequent
Tabou. That would make it easy," Jasper said.
"Just be careful," I cautioned. "If he finds out you're asking about that…"

Jasper raised a hand, "I can take care of myself. And no one will find out I'm asking."

I sighed and scrubbed my face with my hands. "I'm going to go check on Bella," I said,
standing.

"How's Rose?" Emmett asked quickly. He'd really taken an interest in her, even if Rose
barely spoke to him or anyone else.

"Bella said she had a hard morning. But she talked some, so that's good. She's just really…"

Emmett nodded his head sadly, "I know."

I turned and headed up the stairs to the second floor where Rose's bedroom was. The door
was open and Alice was arranging Emmett's flowers in a vase on the windowsill, talking
brightly about nothing while Bella brushed Rose's hair. When she saw me Bella dropped a
quick kiss on Rose's cheek and slipped off the bed. As she joined me in the hall she pulled
the door closed behind her.

"How is she?"

"A little better, I think."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"Edward?" Bella began hesitantly.

"Yes?"

"I'm proud of you," she finally said softly. "For talking to your dad. For listening to him. I
really think he's here to help."

I nodded. "I think so, too."

"I know you and he still have a lot of history to work through, but thank you for calling
him."

I shrugged. "We needed the help…for Rose."

"Yes, but I know it must have been hard for you to do and I appreciate it."

I smiled and slid an arm around her waist. "I did it for you, Bella. Because I love you."

She smiled back at me and leaned in closer until her cheek was resting on mine and her lips
were against my ear. Her arms came up around my neck and her breath blew across my
neck, giving me goosebumps.

"And I love you, too," she whispered.

***

Chapter 23

It was odd having Edward's father in the house. I know if it had been my father seeing us
descend from the attic apartment every morning—an apartment with one bed and no other
place to sleep—Edward would be looking at the business end of a shotgun. I kept waiting
for the other shoe to drop, for some sign that he disapproved of me or didn't think I was
good enough for his son or his family. It never came.

Mr. Cullen, or Ed, as he insisted I call him, was never impolite or nosy. He was always a little
bit stiff, but I attributed that to the fact that I never interacted with him outside of Edward's
looming presence. And if I felt like every interaction we had was being put under a
magnifying glass, I'm sure he did. As a result I hadn't had the chance to really talk to him,
and I regretted it. It felt like I was wasting a huge opportunity to learn about where Edward
came from and how he became the man he was.

"You're lucky, Bella," Alice said. It was a week after Edward's father arrived, and we were
folding laundry in one of Esme's parlors... well, I was folding laundry and Alice was
watching. Esme liked to tease me that she had a maid for a reason, but I liked to keep my
hands busy. It felt almost shameful to let Tati wash my clothes, but Alice convinced me that
she had a better idea on how to handle the different fabrics than I did. It was going to take a
lot more sweet-talking to make me give up the one chore I had left that gave me any piece of
mind.

"Why am I lucky?" I laughed. "There are a lot of words I'd use to describe myself, but lucky
isn't one of them."

She sighed and tossed an embarrassingly lacy pair of underwear at me. "Edward's dad is
gorgeous! You have seen the future, and it's still dreamy."

"What?" I choked a little and glanced over at her, but she seemed completely serious.

"Oh, come on. You had to wonder what he'd look like when he's older. Good looking men
don't always age well. But Ed, well, he's still got it. Nice jaw, those lips! And that man can
wear a suit!"

"Alice!" I hissed. I ran to the door of the parlor and stuck my head out. The hallway was
deserted, and I couldn't hear any sounds coming from the front room. I pulled the door shut
behind me and glared at her, blushing furiously. "What if someone heard you?"

She rolled her eyes. "I know Esme would think it was funny, Carlisle would probably think
pretend he didn't know what we were talking about. And Edward might take it as a
compliment!"

A strange sort of gleam reached her eyes and she leaned forward. "Speaking of Edward...
how are things going?"

"I don't know how things could be better," I sighed, smiling a little foolishly. "I told him I
love him. I still don't know what exactly we're going to do once we sort out this thing with
Rose and Royce, but I know that whatever we do, we'll do it together."

She waved her hand impatiently. "That's sweet, but that's not what I meant. How are
things... in the bedroom?"

"Alice!" I gasped again.

"Oh, don't be such a prude," she laughed. "I know you're not as innocent as you look. Tell
me something juicy. Is he an animal? The quiet ones usually are."

I felt my jaw drop open. I hadn't really had a conversation about sex before. It seemed too
private, or like I should be ashamed of what I knew about Edward and the things his body
could do to mine. But Alice was far more experienced than I was, at least, I assumed she
was, and her face held no judgment. So I gave in, like I usually did when Alice wanted to talk
about something.

"He's..." I paused, thinking it over. "He's not an animal. I think he could be, and sometimes it
comes out."

I remembered the desperate way he had pushed into me the night after we found Rose, his
hands pulling me tight to his body, his breath hot and frantic on my neck. It hadn't felt
rough, just urgent and needy. It had been exactly what I needed at the time. My skin tingled
a little, and I felt myself start to flush at the memory.

"But the way he makes me feel, Alice, I didn't know I could feel like that." I tripped over my
words a bit, still a little uncomfortable with the conversation. I lowered my voice, despite
the closed door. "I mean, it's like I'm on fire, like I'm about to explode and collapse all at the
same time. It's so intense."

"Every time?" Alice asked, apparently impressed. When I nodded, she whistled. "I know you
don't have a lot of basis for comparison, kid, but that's a good record he's got going. So what
else have you done?"

My forehead pulled together and I looked at her in confusion. "What else is there?"
"Haven't you put him in your mouth yet?"

My mouth must have flapped open again, because she started giggling even louder. "Oh my
God, if you could see your face!"

"Do people... do that?"

She waggled her eyebrows at me suggestively. "People do it all the time. In fact, people
really like it. Or so I'm told."

"And he... I mean, men...is that good? For them?"

"Oh, Bella, it's good for everyone. If you're lucky, and I've told you already I think you are,
he'll even reciprocate."

My eyes got impossibly wider. "You mean, his mouth on my... on my..."

"Yes," she laughed. "And let me tell you, when a man knows what he's doing, it's nothing
short of heavenly."

"I don't think I could do that," I said firmly. "Either thing... I just...his mouth?"

There was so much I didn't know, so much I hadn't seen or even heard of. Suddenly I felt
incredibly inexperienced and naïve, despite how far I knew I'd come since I met Edward. I
shook my head furiously and picked up the basket full of underthings and freshly pressed
shirts.

Alice followed me to the stairs, laughing under her breath the whole time.

"I have to go to the office," she said, squeezing my shoulder and making me turn to face her.
"And hey, don't worry about what you don't know, okay? Edward loves you."

"Am I that obvious?"

She shrugged. "Only to me, chérie."

I laughed and gave her a little shove. "You're spending too much time with Esme."

"Impossible," she sang, skipping toward the door. "Say hello to Rosalie for me! Ta!"

I trotted up the stairs, pausing at the landing to listen for sounds from Rosalie's room. I
could hear Emmett talking, but not Rose. He'd been spending more and more time with her,
and part of me hoped something would happen between them. Then I would think about
everything Rose had been through, and how unlikely it was she would even want to try a
relationship again anytime soon. Regardless, he seemed to be good for her, and she didn't
mind being alone with him.
Setting my hamper on the landing, I crept quietly toward her door. I just wanted to listen a
little, to see if she would talk to him. We'd made some progress, but she was still so quiet.
Rose Hale was not a quiet girl; boisterous, bossy, outgoing, brassy, but never quiet. Until
now.

"Do you think you'd like to sit by the window?" Emmett's voice filtered through the slightly
ajar door. He was speaking softly, a foreign, tender tone creeping in. "I could wheel you
over into the sunlight, there's a nice breeze today."

She made an incomprehensible little noise.

"Okay, so not the window. Are you comfortable? Do you need another pillow for your
back?"

Another muttered string of almost-words.

"What about something to drink or eat? I think Carlisle got some fresh croissants this
morning."

I strained to hear her answer, but it didn't sound like she said anything this time.

"Are you warm enough? Too cold? I think there are extra blankets in the closet. I'll go get
you one, and I'll grab you a cup of coffee as well."

"For God's sake, Emmett, stop fussing over me like a mother hen! If I want something, I'll
ask for it. If I'm cold, I'll get my own damn blanket. I can get myself in and out of the
wheelchair, and I can push myself to the window. Now why don't you go get yourself a cup
of coffee, since you're so hung up on it?"

I slapped a hand over my mouth before I could laugh out loud in delight. That was the Rose I
knew. It was such a relief to hear the sharp sting in her voice, the passion that normally
infused everything she said, that I almost missed what came next.

"But...but..." Emmett stammered, too surprised to formulate a real answer.

"Go on! I don't want to see you back in this room until you have some coffee. Have a whole
pot, if it'll stop your coddling!"

I backed away quickly as I heard him stand and make for the door. Grabbing my basket, I
retreated down a few steps to make it look like I was just coming up the stairs. He walked
out into the hall in a bit of a daze, meeting my eyes with a dawning look for horror.

"Bella," he whispered. "I think... I'm so sorry, but I think I really upset Rose just now. Maybe
you should go check on her."
I raised an eyebrow and tried to keep my face neutral. "What do you mean?"

"She...she yelled at me," he said, big brown eyes wide and sheepish. "Told me to stop
coddling her and to leave her alone. I was just trying to make her comfortable, and she told
me to leave. She said I couldn't come back until ...well, it's not important."

He glanced nervously over his shoulder.

"Emmett McCarty, you look like you've seen a ghost. Are you afraid of a woman?" I teased.

His neck flushed and he straightened up, a smile pulling at the sides of his lips. "Nah," he
said. His mouth relaxed a fraction, though, when he said in a hushed voice, "but I hope I
didn't upset her too much."

"Trust me, Emmett, I think you did more good than you could understand right now," I
assured him. "It sounds like you got Rose to react like her old self. She's a force to be
reckoned with when she's at full strength, and she doesn't like it when people treat her like
she's helpless." I poked his bicep and grinned. "Don't let her push you around. For now, you
should probably go get that coffee."

His eyes flashed and he stared at me openmouthed. "You..."

"Bye, Emmett," I laughed, pushing past him and into Rose's room.

I didn't look up at her at first, just nudged the door closed with my hip and set down my
basket. Fighting down my smile, I glanced over at Rose as I walked around the room,
adjusting curtains and straightening odds and ends. Her face was flushed, but it gave her a
bit of a healthy glow for once. The pink in her cheeks drew attention away from her sallow
skin and yellowing bruises. She was propped up in her bed, but she was glaring at the
wheelchair next to her like it had personally offended her.

"Everything all right?" I asked casually, turning to face her fully for the first time.

She exhaled sharply, the air rushing out in a short blast, then rolled her eyes.

"That man," she grumbled. "He thinks he's so polite, so sweet."

"Emmett is a wonderful man," I said cautiously, sitting next to her on the edge of the bed.
She wrinkled her nose.

"He's a conscientious jailor, I'll give him that," she muttered. I frowned, and her expression
softened. "I'm sorry," she sighed. "It's just that he's always here being so... so..."

"Nice? Helpful? Kind?"

"Annoying!" she sputtered. "Something about him just gets under my skin."
She looked uncomfortable, and I thought it was probably a little more than that, but I let it
go.

"Well, all the same, it's nice to see you acting a little bit like your old self. I've missed you." I
spoke softly, but I knew she heard me when she sighed again. The flush in her cheeks was
starting to recede, but her outburst seemed to have done her some good. She sat straighter,
and there was life in her eyes where before there had only been blank, expressionless blue.

"I missed you too," she said, smiling at me. "When I was still with Royce, it used killed me to
know exactly where you were but that I couldn't call you or see you. I kept imagining you
sitting all alone in Alice's apartment, waiting for me to call. Of course, you weren't exactly
all alone, were you?"

The tense edge in her voice wasn't hard to recognize. She and Esme had been spending
more time together, and she even seemed to be comfortable with Carlisle when he came to
check on her recovery. But despite everything, she still didn't care for Edward. I was sick of
dancing around it and justifying myself at every turn. Maybe now that she was acting a little
bit more like her old self we could have a rational discussion about him.

"What are you getting at, Rose? Just say it." I spoke calmly and quietly, not wanting to
antagonize her but needing to hear what was really bothering her.

"You know what I'm getting at. This romantic fairy tale you think your living...where is it
going? What happens when you go home to Forks, have you talked about it at all? And what
about Jake? And your parents? I don't want to see you throw everything away for a
handsome man who seems like he's too good to be true. I did, and look where it got us."

"Is that what you think I'm doing?"

"That's what it looks like to me. Sleeping with a man you've barely known for a few months?
Working in some corner café and giving up on school? What about college, Bella? You have
a life at home. Edward isn't a part of it."

Her words tore at me, mostly because she was saying everything that I had been thinking
for weeks. The difference was that where she saw destruction and waste, I saw hope for a
future I didn't even think was possible. And maybe it was time to start believing in that
future.

"I think you need to understand something," I said, soft but firm. "Edward and I love each
other, and maybe it happened fast, but I trust him to take care of me, and he trusts me. "

I paused, choosing my words carefully. "This life that I have here... it's more than just
something I'm doing to pass the time. I'm...I'm happy here. I'm happier here with Edward
and my silly waitressing job than I was in Forks, or even Seattle. And what about Jake? You
didn't even like him that much and he didn't treat me with a fraction of the love and respect
that Edward gives me. I've already told him it's over."

Her jaw dropped a little and she interrupted me. "You and Jake have been together for
years!"

"We were together, but we're not anymore," I said, raising my voice a little. "I know you're
probably worried that I'm going to get in trouble or get hurt, but Rose, you don't have to
be."

I reached out for her hand, but she pulled away and crossed her arms, pursing her lips and
giving me a stern look.

"I love you, and I'm here for you, but I have to do what's right for me. Edward is right for
me."

"What are you saying?" she asked. Her voice was starting to rasp a little, probably because
she rarely talked this much anymore.

"I'm saying that when you're well enough...when you go home... I don't think I'm coming
with you. Before you say anything," I raised a hand to stop her sputtering, "I've been
thinking about this for a while now. Edward offered to come back to Forks with me, but can
you see him trying to be a painter in Forks? Even if we moved to Seattle he'd be miserable.
And I'd be miserable too.

"I need your support, Rosie, because I know my parents won't be happy with me. I need you
to tell me it's okay."

We stared at each other for a long moment, neither of us speaking. Even though I probably
wouldn't change my mind, I felt like I needed her to give me some sort of sign that she
thought I was making the right decision. Alice and Esme would be ecstatic that I wanted to
stay, and Edward would be relieved, but they weren't family. Rose was. She always had
been.

Her mouth relaxed, just a little, and her eyes softened. She sighed and leaned back into her
pillows.

"I can't do that, Bella," she finally said.

I sighed and turned away. "Oh."

"At least not until I get some details."

I looked back at her quickly, certain I had misunderstood. Her face was still serious, but
there was a hint of a smile in her eyes.

"What kind of details?" I asked quietly. "I told you all about him after we brought you
home."

"I wasn't really paying attention," she admitted a little sheepishly. "I was a little... out of it."

"Oh," I said again. It made sense. She was practically catatonic for days. Of course she wasn't
listening. "Well, where would you like me to start?"

"Tell me how you met."

I smiled at the memory of Edward towering over me, a look of disapproval on his face. "He
told me he didn't like my hair."

"What?" she gasped, but I just laughed a little louder and started from the beginning. I told
her about how he saw me in the park the night I came to Paris, leaving out the bit about
how I had been crying. She interrupted me when I told her about knocking out the red
headed man in the bar.

"You attacked a total stranger?"

"Well, I didn't attack him so much as he surprised me. You know how Dad is, always going
on about how a woman has to protect her virtue. I was so nervous," I laughed. "I was all
wound up, and then the man came out of nowhere and grabbed at me. It was reflex."

She shook her head, but a small smile was starting to bloom. "At least the Chief's lessons
helped one of us out."

Her words were light, but an undercurrent of pain ran through them.

I was trying to find the right thing to say when a light knock on her door interrupted us. The
door creaked open, and I looked up to see Edward standing awkwardly in the doorway.

"Sorry to intrude," he said softly, smiling us, "but Bella, it's time to go to work. I promised
I'd walk you, remember?"

"I'm sorry," I said immediately, glancing up at the clock on the wall. "I said I'd be downstairs
five minutes ago! Just let me run my laundry up to the garret and I'll be ready to go."

"I can get it," he said easily. "Don't worry about it."

I crossed the room and kissed his cheek. He smiled at me and then looked over my
shoulder. "Hello, Rose."

He turned away, expecting her to ignore him like she had every time he had tried to talk to
her so far.

"Hello, Edward," she murmured. He whipped his head back around and looked at her
incredulously, but she just smiled an odd sort of half smile and then closed her eyes.

"Come on," I said, tugging on his arm. "I don't want to be late."

He didn't bring it up until we were almost halfway to the café. We walked quietly, our hands
swinging between us, his thumb resting firmly on my knuckles. Finally, he cleared his
throat and look down at me. "So," he said, staring down at me with raised eyebrows, "that
was different."

"What was?" I asked innocently, keeping my eyes fixed straight ahead.

He nudged me with his elbow. "You know. Rose."

"Well, we had a nice talk," I said. "I told her that you're really important, and since she's
family, it's important to me that you get along."

"Really important?" he said, his tone casual.

"I told her I love you, and that we're together now, no matter what."

I squeezed his hand and watched him, soaking up the happiness that lit up his face at my
words. I didn't want to tell him about staying Paris yet, mostly because it seemed like a
conversation that shouldn't take place in the middle of the street on my way to work. I was
pretty sure he'd be happy about my decision, but there was a chance that he would argue
with me about it. I wanted to have the chance to talk about it...and maybe even do some
celebrating. My mind flashed back to my earlier conversation with Alice and I fought the
urge to giggle. I started talking again before I could embarrass myself.

"She started to ask questions about you and, I don't know, I think she's going to try to make
an effort."

We came to a stop in front of the café and he pulled me into his arms. I sighed happily as he
kissed me, forgetting that we were in full view of the customers who sat at scattered tables
in front of the café. It was only when the people behind us started clearing their throats that
I pulled away.

"I have to go. See you at home?" I started to walk backwards, wanting to watch his smile for
as long as I could.

He nodded and smiled even wider. "See you at home."

I watched him walk away before hurrying into the kitchen and grabbing my apron off the
hook. Angelique was talking to Benjamin, the cook. I couldn't tell for sure, but I thought
maybe there was something going on between them. She smiled broadly at me.

"Hello! You are almost late, you are okay?"

Her English had improved almost as much as my French had. We joked that we had started
a little language school in Pierre's café, with the two of us exchanging phrases and teaching
grammar points.

"C'est une belle journée et je suis amoureux! Que demander de plus?"

She laughed and pointed to the front of the café. "I am glad to hear it, but your boys have
been asking about you. You should go to them."

I rolled my eyes and grabbed my pad of paper, hurrying back outside to the sidewalk café.
There were "my boys," looking just as shaggy and disreputable as they always did. They let
up a cheer when I got close, earning a glare from the customers at a nearby table.

"Will you keep it down?" I sighed, leaning against Eric's chair. "You should have a little
more respect for the other diners."

Tyler laughed loudly and shook his head. "One day, this café is going to be famous because
we spent our days here. They'll talk about it as the place where the decade's greatest
philosophy was born!"

Michael grinned at me. "If you're lucky, ma petite, we'll mention you in our memoirs."

"Please do," I shot back, "I can see it now: Bella Swan poured the best cup of coffee in Paris."

"Ditch the British chap and you can have a starring role," Michael answered, leering at me.

I laughed and pushed his shoulder, straightening up and giving them a more businesslike
stare. "Enough. Stop picking on Edward and tell me what I can get for you."

About an hour later I was leaning against the side of the building, sunning myself and
thinking about the story I had just started writing. It was about me, a little, but mostly it
was about the transition from childhood to adulthood, and all the longings, confusion and
clarity that come with it. The idea had nagged at me late one night as I was lying in
Edward's arms, reveling in the way his fingers traced over the bare skin on my shoulder
blades. The moment was so perfect: the two of us were tangled together under his thin
cotton sheets, and it was impossible to tell where one of us stopped and the other began. If
someone had told me that this scene, this snapshot of bliss and sexual energy and tender
touches, was in my future six months ago, I wouldn't have believed it. It got me thinking,
and by the next day I had written ten pages of observations and musings.

"Excuse me, mademoiselle," a rough, gravelly voice barked from my right. I opened my eyes
and turned toward the sound. The voice came from the same table that had been directing
glares and disapproving coughs at Eric, Tyler and Michael all morning. For the first time, I
looked at the three people seated there, taking in the oddest grouping of characters I had
seen outside of one of Esme's salons.
The two men couldn't have been more different; one was incredibly thin and gangly, with a
fuzzy layer of strawberry blond hair dusting his balding head and large, watery blue eyes,
and the other was round and beefy, with a strong chin and a square face, his thick, slightly
curly steel grey hair covered up by a felt cap. The woman who sat with them, I realized with
a start, was the one who had spoken to me. She had heavy eyebrows and mousy brown hair
that curled in a sort of haphazard way down around her shoulders. A bright scarf covered
most of her head, and a long string of pearls was draped around her neck.

"Allô?" she said again, waving a hand that was covered in rings and dripping with bracelets.
"Mademoiselle? Some service, s'il vous plaît?"

I started, and walked toward them slowly. "Yes? What do you need?"

She gave me a piercing stare and didn't say anything. I waited for a moment, shifting
uncomfortably, before the stout man in the felt cap started laughing. I liked the sound of it;
it was rumbling and jovial. It made me smile.

"Marguerite, stop scaring the poor girl," he said, looking up at me with twinkling brown
eyes. His voice had an unidentifiable cadence to it. He wasn't French, but neither was he
English or German. Russian, maybe? "Your dinner menu, ma belle?"

"Oh," I said, for some reason still thrown by the group of them. "Of course."

When I brought the menus back, the three of them were deep in conversation.

"Your menus," I said softly, placing them face down on the table. "Is there anything else?"

"As a matter of fact," the thin man said, his eyes darting nervously around the outdoor
seating area before coming back to my face. "There is something else."

"Alistair," the woman, Marguerite, moaned. "Just leave it be."

"Mademoiselle," Alistair continued, lowering his voice and leaning forward, "are you aware
that you are being watched?"

My eyebrows shot up and I glanced from side to side. The only people who were paying any
attention to me at all were Michael and Tyler, taking lazy glances at my backside.

"Those boys?" I said with a breezy laugh. "Would-be philosophers with a taste for espresso.
They may not tip very well, but they're harmless."

"I am not speaking of those schoolboys," he hissed, his voice getting softer as he leaned
further forward.

"Alistair," the round man said, his tone holding more than a little warning, "don't frighten
the poor girl."

"Don't tell me you think I'm imagining things again, Demetri," Alistair said. "You've seen
them too."

Demetri sighed but didn't say anything.

I looked back and forth between the two of them, completely confused. "I'm sorry, seen
who?"

"Them," Alistair hissed, extending a shaking finger toward the corner of the sidewalk café. I
started to turn my head, but he made another little hissing sound. "Don't look!"

"Okay," I said slowly. "I'm not sure I understand."

Marguerite huffed loudly and looked up at me. "You'll have to excuse Alistair. He's a bit of a
conspiracy theorist I'm afraid. Another round of coffee if you please."

I paused for a second before sweeping back inside for their coffee. Alistair had put me on
edge, and as I made my way outside again I scanned the tables. Nothing seemed out of place.
There were the American boys, a few scattered tables of lovers out in the bright sunshine.
And then, in the far corner that Alistair had pointed to, two men sat in dark suits and hats
tipped low over their faces. One of them met my eyes for a split second before turning away.
It made me feel uneasy, but I shrugged it off and walked back to the table I had just left. I
could hear Marguerite talking in a raised voice.

"Why would a little ex-pat waitress be the target of drug dealers?" she was saying. "She's a
mousy little thing, unremarkable."

I cleared my throat as I got closer, and she looked up. She pushed her empty cup out toward
me and turned back to Demetri and lowered her voice. "And at any rate, you don't even
know for sure who they are. You're a writer, for Christ's sake, not a detective."

"A writer?" I asked, the question coming unbidden to my lips. I blushed as all three of them
looked up at me in surprise.

Demetri smiled. "Oui, ma belle. We are all writers, Marguerite, Alistair and I."

"Have you written anything I've heard of?" I asked, setting their cups down carefully, taking
my time. I'd spoken to writers at Esme's parties, of course, but for some reason I had never
wanted to ask questions before now.

"A little of this, a little of that," Marguerite said with another wave of her hand. "It's not
about popularity, child, it's about expression in its purest form. I don't suppose you know
what I mean by that."
"I think so," I said cautiously. "When I write, it's more about being able to say what I need to
say, of getting the words out of my head and on paper. Nobody's ever read my writing, but I
still love to do it."

"Ah, a novice!" Demetri exclaimed. "And what is it you write about?"

"Romance?" Marguerite said, raising a thick eyebrow.

"Or maybe you write mystery novels," Alistair piped up, giving a nervous glance to the back
corner where I knew the men in dark suits sat. "Do you do your research in dark corners,
meeting with dangerous men?"

I laughed. "I don't know what I write," I said. I set my tray down and wiped my hands on my
apron. "To be honest, I've only just started writing again. I'm still kind of figuring it out."

"Well, Paris is a city to find your muse," Demetri laughed. "And this seems a perfect spot to
sit and think."

"As long as you aren't being followed by dark men," Alistair muttered.

I shifted uneasily and smiled at Demetri. "Yes," I said. "As cafes go, I think this is a nice one.
I'll... leave you to your writing."

I started to go and then stopped and turned back. "This may be a silly question, but... do you
happen to know Esme Benoit?"

Marguerite's face brightened immediately. "Now there's a name I haven't heard in years. I
knew Esme before the war. How do you know her?"

"I'm actually staying with her right now. It's a long story."

"Does she still throw those fabulous parties?" Marguerite sounded almost wistful.
"Everyone used to go to those parties...I can still remember the lights and the music. I
stopped going after the occupation started," she sighed. "Most of us did. It wasn't the same."

"Yes, she still has the parties," I laughed. "You should come, I know she always loves to see
old friends. She has at least one a week."

Marguerite smiled then, and it made her look younger. For a second, I could see the woman
who attended all of Esme's gatherings before the Germans came and the city was destroyed.
"I think that's a fantastic idea. Tell her Marguerite Badeau is very much looking forward to
seeing her again."

"I'll do that," I said, and started to walk away again. She reached out for my wrist and
stopped me.
"Mademoiselle," she murmured, so quietly I had to lean in to hear her. "Alistair has a habit
of making something out of nothing, but it's better safe than sorry, non? Don't walk home
alone tonight."

I nodded and backed away, going to check on my boys and then checking back in at the
kitchen with Angelique. The eyes of the men in the corner seemed to follow me as I moved,
but every time I turned to look at them they were carefully looking in the other direction.
They were sitting at one of Angelique's tables, but they never asked for more than a single
cup of coffee, and she said they barely spoke to each other.

Edward was playing at Le Tabou, and I had planned to walk home by myself. It wasn't a long
walk to Esme's house, but the men and Marguerite's warning had me on edge. I asked
Pierre to use his phone, and though he grumbled a little bit, he pulled it out from behind his
counter and let me call Esme's house. Carlisle answered after two rings.

"Allô?"

"Carlisle? It's Bella."

"Bella? Is anything wrong dear? I thought you were at the café?"

"I am, I'm about to walk home actually. But Edward keeps telling me I have to be careful,
and there are some men here... I'm probably being silly, never mind."

"Men? What kind of men?"

"Two men, sitting in the corner of the café all day. I think they've been watching me, but I'm
not sure."

"Emmett and Jasper will be around in a few minutes to walk you home."

"Carlisle, it's fine, I'm just on edge. This whole thing with Royce just has me a little bit
spooked."

"It's not fine," he said firmly. "Edward would never forgive me if I let you walk home alone,
and I don't have the stomach for another few days in the hospital or worse. Now stay there
and the boys will come for you soon. Do you hear me?"

A little taken aback by his tone, I stuttered a quick "okay" and hung up the phone.

True to Carlisle's word, Emmett and Jasper arrived about 15 minutes later. The men out
front watched us as we passed, but they didn't make a move to follow us.

"Never a full day until some dangerous looking man tries to stalk you, is it Bella?" Emmett
laughed darkly, tousling my hair a little as we walked down the street.
Jasper glanced over his shoulder and scowled. "This isn't a joke, Emmett. Now they're
coming to where she works? What about Alice? Those offices aren't exactly on a main
thoroughfare."

"Alice can take care of herself," I said quickly. "She would never let herself get caught up in
anything dangerous."

Jasper smirked and shook his head. "She's still with me, isn't she?"

"Yeah, and you're such a bad egg," Emmett laughed. "Bella's right, Jasper. Stop worrying and
let's get back to Esme's. Alice is visiting Rose right now, she and Bella can spend the night
in, nice and safe."

"Sure, safe," I grumbled. "And what will you boys be doing while you leave us languishing at
home?"

I was mostly kidding, but the sudden silence that fell over us was more than a little
suspicious.

"Emmett," I said sweetly, sure that if one of them was going to slip up and tell me
something, it would be him. "Where exactly are you boys going tonight?"

"Out," he said evasively.

"Out, huh? Out where?"

"We hadn't really planned it out," he mumbled, giving Jasper a shifty look. Then he sighed
and looked back at me. "But we might head over to Le Tabou and catch Edward at the end of
his set."

"That sounds like fun," I said with a wide smile. "Give me a couple of minutes to freshen up
and grab Alice and I'm sure she'll want to come along."

Silence. Then Jasper started talking, pulling out a reassuring smile and leading me gently
through the front door.

"The thing is Bella, we're really only going to be at the club for an hour or so. It's not worth
getting all dolled up to go out just to turn around and come home. You can see Edward
when we get back, he's got the early set tonight."

It might have worked, except for Jasper didn't see Alice standing in the doorway to the
kitchen as we walked in. He was doomed the second he mentioned getting dolled up. And
Alice wouldn't take no for an answer.

A quick change and a fresh layer of makeup later, Alice and I were walking out the door
with the boys. We made small talk on the walk to the club, but everything seemed... off
somehow. The uneasy glances that Jasper and Emmett were giving each other didn't escape
my notice, and from the looks Alice was giving me, she knew something was up too.

I had a feeling it was going to be a long night.

Translation:

C'est une belle journée et je suis amoureux! Que demander de plus? It's a beautiful day and
I'm in love! What could be better?"
***

Chapter 24

"Quelle heure est-il?" I asked Laurent anxiously.

"Huit," Laurent said absently, adjusting the screw on the cymbal of his drum kit.

I raked my hands through my hair and looked towards the door again, hoping in vain for a
glimpse of Jasper and Emmett.

The whole thing was set. The chain of events, hopefully, had begun already. Technically,
they didn't need to be here. But I would still feel better if they were.

They were late. I couldn't imagine what could have held them up. They were staying at
Esme's for the afternoon as per the plan, and they were supposed to arrive at Le Tabou at
7:45. But it was eight and there was no sign of them.

I pivoted on my piano stool to face the keys again and flexed my fingers. We were supposed
to be playing by now, but Felix had a fit about the mouthpiece on his trumpet and took off
backstage for a different one, buying me a little more time.

Trying to look casual, I let my eyes flit around the room. The key players were in place.
James was leaning against the bar with an air of studied nonchalance. He sipped his drink
absently, but his small, squinty eyes darted around the room non-stop. He was looking for
the other main player in tonight's drama, Randall Taylor, the American trombonist who
was playing with the featured performer at Tabou tonight, scheduled to go on after us.

Randall was across the room, ostensibly talking to Phillipe, Tabou's manager, but his eyes
kept scanning the room anxiously and his fists kept clenching. He was full of nervous
energy, anxiety rolling off of him. He ran a hand over his tousled black hair, his dark eyes
contrasting sharply with his pale, sallow skin. I'd met him once before, a year ago when he
was on tour with Sidney Bechet. I knew back then that he did heroin, but seeing what it had
done to him in the space of a year made me feel sick. He had deep rings of purple under his
eyes, and his skin was ghostly and clammy. He looked nervous and slightly panicky,
completely distracted from his conversation with Phillipe. He was sweating and his fingers
never stopped twitching. None of it boded well for his playing, assuming he ever made it on
stage.

Randall's deteriorated state made me feel slightly less bad about what was about to
happen. The minute I saw him on the roster at Tabou, I knew our opportunity had
presented itself. Then yesterday afternoon I'd made sure I was at Tabou for his rehearsal,
even though I had no good reason to be hanging around then. I acted like I forgot some
sheet music there that I needed and spent an hour pretending to dig through the boxes
stacked in the corner of the green room that the musicians used.

I was there when Randall started up a conversation with Laurent about how much he liked
Paris. I listened with my heart in my throat as Randall talked about the great parties he'd
been to in Paris last year, about how much fun he'd had. Laurent laughed along, offering to
drag Randall with him wherever he was headed that night. Then Randall, his fists stuffed
into his pocket, had asked Laurent with a studied casual air if he knew where he could get
something to help the party along. Laurent started to bluster and stall a little. I knew he
knew people, but he was cautious about sharing names with a stranger. Besides, the guys
Laurent knew were just users, not dealers.

I sensed my moment and took a deep breath.

"There's a guy that hangs out here sometimes. James LaFave. He could hook you up. You
know him, Laurent?"

Laurent had swiveled to me and nodded, mystified. I had always stayed completely clear of
these conversations and this scene. Laurent knew that. But he said nothing, he just turned
back to Randall and said he'd pass the word along to James for him.

Apparently he had, because James was here with another thick-necked thug standing
stupidly at his side. But this guy wasn't Santine or Saroute, the guys I tangled with in the
alley. Those two still hadn't re-surfaced and I didn't know how to feel about that. When I
came out on stage and got settled at the piano, James' eyes had flickered to me briefly, his
expression stony, before looking away. He hadn't paid me any further notice, which was
just fine with me.

The players in the next part of the plan had yet to materialize, but it was early yet. When I'd
met up with Jasper and Emmett yesterday to tell them about Randall and James, my father
had strolled into the kitchen just as we were discussing exactly how to ensure that the
gendarmes would be there to see the whole thing happen. My father had asked what we
were up to and Emmett cheerfully told him the whole thing.

I expected him to get angry, to rail at me for my foolishness, for my reckless plan, but
surprisingly, he did none of that. He just asked what we planned to do next. Jasper told him
he was going to speak to the few contacts he had in the ranks of the gendarmes and hope
that it was enough to convince them to send some officers to Tabou at the appointed time.

Then my father shocked me even further.

"I have a friend in the Gendarmerie. A contact from the war. Carlisle knows him in passing.
This would actually fall under the jurisdiction of the National Police, but I can speak to my
friend, Garrett, if you like. He's got contacts there, surely. I suspect he'd have better luck
securing their cooperation."

I just blinked at him, unable to respond. Emmett was the one to thank him vociferously for
his help. I was too stunned to say anything.

So my dad spoke to this mysterious contact he had from the war and supposedly the
presence of the Police Nationale was guaranteed tonight. I had no idea my father had
anything to do during the war. He was too old for combat. I though he'd just stayed in
England, kept his head down, and fretted about the Blitz. But now there were all these
intriguing hints. This man, Garrett, a Scotsman, was some sort of contact from the war. Why
did my father have contacts from the war? And one that Carlisle knew? I knew Carlisle and
Esme had both been involved in the Resistance. Was my own father mixed up in it in some
way I'd never guessed at? The whole thing left me baffled and curious, but I was unable to
do a thing about it tonight. The first priority was James.

Garrett worked with the Gendarmerie and was able to tell us that the Police Nationale had
been hoping to catch James red-handed for some time. So when I offered up an opportunity
and all they had to do was to show up and make the arrest, they were more than happy to
oblige.

It all seemed straightforward enough, so why was I so anxious?

Then I heard a high-pitched laugh that cut through the low-grade chatter of Tabou like an
arrow. Alice.

I spun to the door and sure enough, there were Emmett and Jasper. And there also were
Alice and Bella. Bloody hell.

Bella turned to the stage, her eyes seeking me out at the piano instinctively. She'd been
here countless nights to watch me play, it was no wonder. My panic at her unexpected
arrival ebbed just a little as her face lit up with a smile when she saw me. I couldn't help but
return it.

I looked back at Laurent, still sitting behind his drum kit waiting for Felix to reappear.

"I'll be right back," I said, sliding off the piano bench. Laurent threw his hands up in disgust
and muttered a curse in French, having now lost two of the three musicians in the trio.

I wound in between the crowded little tables, trying to make my way over to them. Bella
kept her eyes fixed on me through the haze of cigarette smoke. Alice was standing on tiptoe,
chattering happily at Emmett, who looked a little nauseous. Jasper looked furious, but then,
he usually did.

"Well, this is a surprise," I said as I finally got close to them.

Bella stepped forward and wrapped her arms around my neck, "Not an unpleasant one, I
hope?"

"Never," I said, leaning down to kiss her cheek, but I was afraid my smile didn't reach my
eyes, and from the suspicious look that crept across Bella's face, I was sure I was right.
"Let's find you a table."

I released her and ushered her ahead of me silently and stood back to let Alice fall in
behind her. As soon as I got close enough to Emmett and Jasper I hissed, "What the bloody
hell are they doing here?"

"Your girl invited herself along!" Emmett hissed back.

"And you couldn't ditch them?"

"You do know Alice, don't you?" Jasper growled. "Once she smelled a night out in the works,
there was no stopping her."

"What the hell are we supposed to do with them?"

"Look, we'll just park ourselves at a table and keep them close. Once this thing goes down,
it's not like you'll need us," Jasper whispered as Alice debated between two different tables.

"That one is better," I said to her, pointing to the one farthest in the corner. "This one is too
close to the restroom." Alice cast a beaming smile over her shoulder at me and skipped
ahead to the table in the corner, the one farthest away from everything. Bella looked back
at me with a small, false smile. Her eyes were hard. She was onto us, no doubt about it.
Maybe she hadn't guessed at the details, but she knew we were hiding something.

I got the girls settled into their seats and when Alice started moaning about needing a
drink, I seized the opportunity to go and get them a bottle of wine. I wound my way back
through the tables until I reached the bar, about six feet down from where James was….or
where he had been, because he was gone.

I spun around and scanned the room furiously and finally spotted the dirty blond of James'
hair across the room. He was talking with a bass player I knew. They were smiling but their
heads were close together and their expressions rather serious. Then I saw the bass player
tip his head ever so slightly in the direction of Randall and James' eyes followed quickly.
Bingo.
Andre, the bartender, snapped me back to attention, asking me what I wanted. I got the
wine and was just starting to figure out how I'd get all the glasses back to the table when a
flurry of activity and raised voices by the door drew my attention there for the second time
that night.

No.

My dad.

Edward Anthony Cullen, Sr., Esquire was standing stiffly just inside the front door of Le
Tabou, his charcoal wool suit impeccably pressed, his hair, only a little darker than mine,
neatly combed. He had his hands clasped lightly in front of him and he was smiling, his face
as relaxed as it ever really got, which was not very relaxed. He was talking to someone…no,
someone was talking at him. My father was just smiling and nodding as the tall, ruddy-faced
man with light brown hair on his left laughed and talked without stopping. While my father
wasn't saying anything, it was clear he knew the man and it dawned on me that this must be
his friend, Garrett, the mysterious war contact. But what the bloody hell were they doing
here?

I snatched up the bottle of wine and balanced the glasses as carefully as I could with my
other arm and stormed over to them.

"Dad!" I hissed. He pivoted to see me and his face lit up with happy surprise.

"Eddie! There you are!"

"Dad, what are you doing here?"

"Why, Garrett here wanted to come along and make sure that everything was handled
properly. That the…erm...sting…how did you say it, Garrett? Went off without a hitch? Yes,
right."

Now Dad's friend, Garrett piped up, his lips curled in a wide smile underneath a bristly full
moustache. "Right, right. Can't be too careful with these things, eh?" he said, his loud
booming voice thick with his Scottish brogue. "Ach, so your Edward's boy, are ye, then?"

I nodded and gave him a tight smile that I didn't mean.

"Well, well, you've got yourself mixed up with a right nasty lot of blokes, there, eh?" he
laughed, clapping me on the shoulder hard and causing me to almost drop the armload of
glasses. My father jumped forward and pulled several of them out of my hands.

"I'm not mixed up with them," I snapped. "I'm trying to help a friend. Do you think being
here is wise? What if James spots you?"

"Eh, the bugger doesn't know who I am, but the local Police Nationale blokes do. I thought it
might be helpful to have a contact on hand, should the need arise."

"But—" I started, before Garrett's large, heavy hand came down on my shoulder again,
silencing me.

"It's all set up, my boy, never fear! Nothing to do now but stay out of the way and enjoy the
show!"

I nearly growled in irritation at him. How could he be so light-hearted and unconcerned

about a drug bust that was about to go down just meters away from us? While Bella was in
the room? I was about to issue a sarcastic retort, but my father stopped me.

"Eddie," my father murmured, "That gentleman on stage seems to be trying to get your
attention."

I turned my head to see Laurent giving me the evil eye and pointing fiercely to the piano.
Damn. I had to go play in the middle of all this.

"I need to get up there. The girls are sitting in the corner with Jasper and Emmett. Why
don't you sit back there with them?"

"Jasper and Emmett are here?" My father sounded absolutely delighted and I had an
irrational flash of jealousy that he was becoming friends with my friends, which I knew was
completely ridiculous.

I shrugged off my anxiety and anger and nodded them towards the table in the corner.
Bella's face lit up when she saw my father and she half-stood to shake the hand of Garret
when he was introduced.

Garrett immediately fell into a chair between Emmett and Bella, helping himself to a
generous glass of wine even though I got the distinct feeling while talking to him that he'd
already been indulging plenty tonight. My father settled in next to Bella on the other side
and began making polite inquiries about her day. The two of them quickly fell into an easy
conversation. Emmett and Jasper, as soon as they understood that Garrett was my father's
friend from the Gendarmerie, were full of questions and interest. Garrett, expansive and
jovial, was clearly basking in it. He leaned back in his chair and slung an arm across the
back of Bella's chair companionably. I wanted to snap at him to back off, even though he
was my father's age. He was wearing a rumpled tan suit that hung haphazardly off his large
frame, his tie hung loose around his neck and his shirt was partly unbuttoned. His cheeks
were ruddy from his earlier drinking, and although he didn't seem necessarily impaired by
alcohol, on the whole he didn't inspire a lot of confidence. I hoped my father knew what he
was doing asking him for help.

"I've got to go play, so I'll see you all in a bit?"

Bella looked up and smiled. "We'll be here!"

I was about to leave when Garrett looked up and stopped me. His eyes were suddenly razor
sharp and he sounded stone-cold sober. "Excuse me, my boy, but would you point out the
WC?"

I pointed off to the right, towards the corner where the restrooms were. Garrett looked and
smiled his thanks, but made no move to go, he just turned back to Emmett and continued
his conversation.

I cast one more scowling look at the happy, oblivious table and stalked back to the stage.
Felix and Laurent were grouchy about starting the set so late, but I ignored them, trying to
focus on the keys while keeping one eye on Bella's table.

We started easy, with Autumn Leaves, and I played along absently, hardly my best
performance, casting quick glances around the room. I had lost track of both James and
Randall when my father and Garrett came in, and now as I squinted through the haze of
smoke in the bar I realized that I still couldn't spot them. Had they left? Had James gotten
wind of what was about to go down and fled? I must have missed a million notes, because
even Laurent was starting to shoot me dirty looks, when once again, a flurry of activity at
the front door drew my attention back. Three uniformed Police Nationale officers were
standing just inside the door. One of them was talking urgently to Phillipe, who was looking
horrified and mildly panicked at the appearance of uniformed officers of the law in his club.
All sorts of less-than-legal activities went on at Le Tabou on a regular basis. I knew Phillipe
must be sweating bullets and I felt bad for bringing this kind of scrutiny down on the club,
but it couldn't be helped.

What happened next seemed to take place almost in slow motion. When I though back on it
later, it was amazing to me that I stayed onstage and that I kept playing through the whole
thing. I couldn't hear anything over the din of our own song, so I watched the scene play out
in silence. Phillipe protested mightily to the Police Nationale, and whatever he said seemed
to confuse them for a moment, as if they weren't sure what to do next. One officer, the
oldest of the three, scanned the room while the two younger ones argued with Phillipe.
Then the older officer froze when his eyes fell on our table, specifically Garrett. Garrett
stared back, every inch of his earlier jovial bluster vanished, replaced with a look of steely
determination.

When Garrett went still, so did Jasper and my father. Emmett, Bella and Alice kept chatting,
oblivious for the moment. Garrett gave one tiny, nearly imperceptible nod of his head to the
officer and his head tipped ever so slightly in the direction of the rest rooms. The older
officer's head dipped a fraction in acknowledgement. With a few words to the other two,
they took off, leaving Phillipe stunned and flustered by the front door as they pushed their
way between the tightly packed tables.

In the end, it happened out of sight, back in the men's room. The three officers burst into
the restroom and found James and Randall in a stall. Randall had already made his
purchase and James was helpfully assisting him in shooting into his arm. Maybe he thought
that if he quickly got that hit into him, he could get another sale out of him before the night
was over. But that was it. With the syringes, needles and vials, plus the additional heroin
James had in his pockets, there wasn't much uncertainty about what had been going on.

I found out all of that later from a guy who'd been sitting near the restroom. At the time, as I
clumsily slammed through a solo in Autumn Leaves, all I saw were three officers disappear
into the restroom and reappear five minutes later, shoving a dazed Randall and a furious
James ahead of them. James made eye-contact with me briefly and I forced myself to stare
back. His face was murderous, but with him helplessly handcuffed, I felt bold enough to
smirk at him. He could only turn his thunderous gaze back to the front as the officer behin
him gave him another shove.

As soon as the officers re-appeared with two men in handcuffs, the place went crazy. People
at tables along the path to the door scampered out of the way. Chairs scraped back, glasses
clinked and voices raised in a buzz of curious chatter. Within a minute, playing became
pointless and I stopped along with Felix and Laurent, who were just now figuring out that
something big was going down.

Philippe looked to the stage, his face a mask of panic and pointed at his watch. He was
signaling us to take a break. I cleared the stage in one bound, down into the chaotic fray on
the floor, shoving through the press of bodies to reach our table in the far back corner.
When I got there, Garrett was hunched over, his face close to Bella's and Alice's, speaking
quickly. Bella's eyes were darting from Garrett to the crowd and back again. When she
spotted me she straightened immediately and pushed forward to reach me. My hands
closed around her upper arms and I nearly sighed in relief and smiled.

"What the hell did you think you were doing?"

Her angry words wiped the relaxed smile right off my face.

"Pardon?"

"Of all the crazy, stupid, dangerous things to do…"

"Love—"

"Don't you 'love' me! You could have been killed! Do you have any idea how dangerous that
man is?"

"And now he's been stopped, hasn't he?"

"And you planned all this without telling me? Either of us?" Bella gestured back at Alice. She
had her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her face uncharacteristically stony. Jasper was
bent down over her, talking rapidly in her ear. I glanced over to Emmett and he shrugged
apologetically. We were in trouble.
Garrett and my father had slipped away to talk with the arresting officers, so I was on my
own to deal with Bella's wrath. I took a deep breath, still uncertain as to how I would diffuse
this situation.

"Bella, we had to do something. Now they have James and we might have some leverage
against Royce."

"What exactly did you do to make this happen, Edward?"

I rubbed the back of my neck and looked back at our table. Alice was yelling at Jasper now
and Emmett was keeping his eyes firmly fastened on his drink. No help there.

"Randall was looking to buy. I pointed him in the right direction. Garrett spoke to the Police
Nationale for us, to make sure they'd be here to see it. That's all."

"Garrett? So your father was in on this, too?"

"Well, it was our idea, but once he knew about it, he offered to help."

Bella closed her eyes and shook her head in disgust.

"Bella?"

"Guuuuhhhh!" she let out a loud, frustrated huff and turned on her heel, pushing through
the crowd towards the door.

I looked to the table. "Jasper?"

He shot me a frazzled, exasperated glare. "I have some stuff to sort out here, Edward."

"You bet we do!" Alice snapped.

"I'll talk to you later," Jasper said.

"Em?"

Emmett held up both hands in front of him defensively. "I'm going to stay a little while here
and walk your dad back to Esme's later. You'd better go catch Bella."

I shot him a dirty look and did just that. I was afraid she'd left the club without me, but she
hadn't. She was leaning on the door frame, just inside, her light spring jacket hanging half-
off her shoulders, staring out at the dark street. I came up behind her and slid her jacket
back up on her shoulders, letting my hands linger there.

"You didn't leave," I murmured.

"I can't," she said, her voice tired. "You just poked a big snake with a stick. You need to walk
me home."

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you what we were planning. We didn't want you and Alice anywhere
near this. You weren't even supposed to be here tonight."

She finally turned to face me, her face no longer angry, just sad, "Edward, why did you do
something so dangerous?"

"We needed something we could use against Royce. And now we have it."

She sighed and rubbed her fingers against her forehead. "I get that, it's just…"

"What?" I shifted closer to her, settling my hands on her hips. She wasn't pushing me away;
that was a good sign.

"When the police showed up and Garrett explained what was happening…you were across
the room, so far away…Edward, if anything had happened to you…"

"Ssshhh, love, don't," I pulled her into an embrace and she came, burying her face in my
shoulder.

"And you can't do that, okay?" she mumbled into the fabric of my shirt. "No more making
plans without me because you think it's for my own good. You made me promise I wouldn't
do it so you can't either."

"You're right. I'm sorry."

"We're in this together, right?"

I nodded against the top of her head.

"That means everything, even the bad stuff."

"Okay, everything. I promise. Forgiven?"

She pulled back to look at me, a rueful little smile on her lips. "I guess so," she sighed
dramatically. "You know I can't resist you."

"I count on that."

I was just leaning in to kiss her when a throat cleared behind me. I turned to see Garrett
and my father standing just behind me. Bella coughed and stepped back. She was always a
little uncomfortable showing affection in front of my father. Frankly, I was, too.

"Sorry to interrupt there, mate," Garrett said, clapping me soundly on the back, all his
earlier boozy goodwill back in full force. "Just wanted to let you know that the Police
Nationale blokes have hauled your friend, James off to headquarters."

"What happens now?" Bella asked.

"There will be charges pressed. The Police Nationale have been gathering evidence against
him for quite some time, so they may throw the book at him. But I let slip the name of Royce
King in front of him, so I think he understands now that his cooperation on that matter
would be appreciated. Now we wait and see what the ruddy bastard has to say."

I sighed heavily. "Thank you for your help."

"Ach!" he waved me off, "Nothing I like better than taking out a right wanker that's got it
coming. Besides, anything for my old war friends, eh?" He turned to smile at my father, who
smiled back. I shot my dad a questioning look, but this wasn't the time or place to press him
for explanations.

"I think we're headed back to Esme's," I finally said. "Did you want to come with us? I'm
thinking we shouldn't wander the streets alone now that we've gone at Royce like this."

"Eh, I wouldn't worry about that bastard," Garrett huffed. "Now that we've got James in
hand, he's likely sweating bullets about what the little rat says. He's not going to risk
making things worse."

I nodded, that was good to hear, at least.

"I think I'll stay a bit longer and catch up with Garrett, if you don't mind, Eddie," my father
said.

I don't know why I was still surprised, there was nothing my father could do or say that
would shock me any more. Bella and I watched him head back inside with Garrett to seek
out Emmett.

"Ready, love?" I said to Bella.

She sighed, "More than. I've seen plenty of this place for tonight."

I slid my arm around her waist as we headed for home.

***

By the time we made it to bed, Bella seemed to be done being mad at me. She said little as
she got ready for bed, but as soon as I turned out the light and climbed under the quilt next
to her, she rolled towards me, pressing her body up against mine, sliding her arms around
my waist. It didn't take long at all for that to have an effect on me and I nudged her chin up
so I could find her lips with mine. She sighed in contentment and I let my hand slide down
to her hip, pulling her in a little closer to me.

We followed our usual path, the gentle kisses growing more heated, my hands seeking out
the more intimate parts of her body, her hands tangling into my hair, guiding my mouth
where she wanted it to go and soon our clothes were off. I rolled her under me and settled
in against her while I kissed her again. She moaned and arched underneath me and I felt
myself slipping against her, just where I wanted to be. So close, one shift and I'd be inside
her. Bella arched again, as if she was seeking me out, inviting me in. I dropped my head into
the crook of her neck to breathe.

"Bella…I need to get ready. Just a second."

I rolled off of her, digging through the nightstand frantically for a French letter. I came up
with one and made a quick mental note to get more at the pharmacy tomorrow. Having
Bella living in the garret with me meant that these activities happened with far more
frequency than I'd ever been used to, and I was reveling in it.

I settled back on the bed on my back. Bella sat up on her heels.

"Can I?"

"Can you what?"

"Can I…you know, put it on you? Is that okay?"

I smirked at her audacious curiosity, so artless and uncalculating and so ridiculously sexy.

"If you want to. Of course."

I pulled it out of the little case and handed it over to her. "You have to…"

"I've watched you do it a million times, Edward. I know how it goes."

"Of course."

"Um…close your eyes."

"Why?"

"It makes me nervous to have you watching me."

I chuckled, but I closed my eyes as she asked, leaning my head back on my crossed arms,
trying to distract myself from how it would feel to have her touching me like that. I waited
for her hands, for the feel of her tentative touch, but it didn't come for a few long moments.
I smiled again, imagining her looking at me and losing her nerve. And then…
Oh, good God…

So warm and so wet and oh, Jesus, that's her mouth! My whole body jerked in surprise and I
nearly shouted. "What the….?"

I shot upright and opened my eyes. Bella was sitting back on her heels again, eyes wide in
shock.

"Sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sure I did that all wrong! I just…"

"What are you doing?" I gasped.

Bella groaned and squeezed her eyes shut, before clapping both of her hands over her face
in embarrassment. I immediately felt terrible. I never meant to make her feel that way.

"I never should have listened to Alice!" Bella mumbled from behind her hands.

"Alice? What's Alice got to do with anything?"

"She said men like that. She said you'd like that! I knew it was a stupid idea."

"No…Bella, stop," I leaned forward and gently pried her hands away from her face. "I do like
that. I just never…I wasn't expecting that you'd do that. It was rather sudden, that's all."

"But I'm sure I'm doing it all wrong," she whispered, not meeting my eyes.

I put a finger under her chin and raised her face to meet mine, "Trust me, love, it's kind of
hard to get it wrong."

"So you'd like it if I did that?"

"Um, yes? But only if you want to. I don't want you to do anything you don't want just to
make me happy, Bella."

Her face softened and then I felt her hand land on my thigh and slide slowly upward. "I
think I want to try."

I swallowed hard and stroked her cheek with my thumb. Without another word she slowly
leaned down and…she kissed it. My eyes nearly rolled back in my head and the sound that
ripped out of my chest wasn't even human.

I wasn't breathing. I couldn't breathe. I just held perfectly still, leaning back on my hands,
staring at the top of her head. She raised her head a little and our eyes locked. Her face was
clouded with desire, no doubt a mirror of mine. Her lips were parted and there was a slight
sheen on the lower one. Oh, good God, is that me on her lips?
"Did you like it when I did that?" she murmured, the hot breath from her mouth ghosting
over me.

All I could do was nod.

"Show me how to do it," she whispered. She reached forward and took one of my hands and
guided it to the side of her head. Then she closed her eyes, lowered her head and slid me
into her mouth.

It was all I could do not to explode right on the spot. Instead I fell back on the bed and
concentrated on anything but what she was doing. I forced myself not to grip her hair too
hard, not to thrust up into her. I couldn't do anything to scare her or make this unpleasant,
because I really wanted her to do it again. My breath was coming in deep, heavy pulls and I
was making ridiculous noises, but I couldn't bring myself to care. I just never wanted this
incredible feeling to stop.

Gently, I took one of her hands in mine and guided it around the base, tightening my fingers
over hers, showing her how to grip me and stroke me. The feeling of her tiny fingers
coupled with the exquisite sensation of her lips and her tongue and every now and then her
teeth, drove me right to the edge in moments. I was groaning, thrashing my head on the
pillow, as I felt the tightening in my groin. I didn't want to pull her off, but releasing into her
mouth was undoubtedly too much too soon.

"Ughhh, Bella….I need you to…you need to…" I couldn't form a complete sentence. And then
she moaned…moaned around me. I couldn't help it. My hips thrust up against her and my
fingers tightened in her hair. My release was bearing down on me. I tugged on her hair and
she seemed to understand, pulling back just enough to let me slip out of her mouth, but she
didn't let go with her hand, continuing to stroke me just like I'd shown her. She stayed
where she was, hovering right over me, as I groaned again and let go, spilling all over her
fingers.

"Oh, God, Bella….that was…"

"A little messy," she finished for me, but I could hear the smile in her low, husky voice.

I kept my eyes closed as I let the end of the sensation wash over me. I felt her shift to the
nightstand, cleaning up, no doubt. She stretched back out along my body, her face close to
mine.

"Was that okay?"

"Okay? Bella, you have no idea. That was amazing."

She gave a small, pleased smile. I wrapped my arm around her back and pushed off, rolling
over on top of her. Then I dipped my head in until my lips were right next to her ear. "And
I'd like to say thank you by reciprocating."
She gasped and stiffened slightly. "That's…Edward, you don't have to do that."

"But I want to."

"You want to do…that? To me?"

I picked my head up then so I could look her in the eye, our faces just inches apart. She
looked so puzzled, clearly confused that I'd want to do something that she seemed to think
would be unpleasant for me.

"Trust me, Bella. I really want to." I dropped down to kiss her jaw, all the way back to her
ear again. "I've dreamed of doing it."

She let out a long, shuddering sigh and closed her eyes.

"Will you let me? I'll stop if you don't like it."

She nodded, her eyes still closed, and I was instantly aroused again. I took my time, kissing
my way slowly down her body, sticking at first to the things we'd done before, the things
she was used to and that I knew she liked. I let my hand slide up her thigh to touch her and I
groaned to feel how aroused she was. She had liked what she did to me.

Slowly I traveled down over her breasts, her abdomen with my lips while my fingers stayed
where they were between her legs. She breathed deeply, gripping the sheets on either side
of her, her eyes squeezed shut and her brow furrowed. Then I gently let my tongue replace
my fingers. She gasped and her hips bucked up.

"Oh…Edward… I don't…"

"Shhh. It's okay, Bella. Just relax."

I dipped my head to her again, tasting her just the way I'd fantasized about so many times.
Her hands continued to twist in the sheets at her sides, her body writing underneath me
gently. Then I added my fingers again and as I entered her, one of her hands flew to my
head, her fingers wrapping into my hair.

"Mmm…Edward…oh…"

And then she gasped and arched up off the bed as her release broke over her. Her
incoherent moans tapered off into one long whimper as I climbed back up her body. I
folded her into my arms and rolled onto my back, pulling her with me. She came, boneless
and pliant, resting her head on my chest, one arm thrown across me.

"Well?" I prompted gently.

"Mmm, that was…um…"

"Did you like it?"

She rolled her eyes. "I think it was pretty clear that I did."

"Good, because I did, too. And I want to do it again. Soon."

I felt her smile into my chest and she sighed. "I won't argue with you. I love you, Edward."

She said it all the time now, it shouldn't have still affected me like that, but it did. Every time
Bella said she loved me, my face split wide with my big ridiculous happy grin.

"I love you, too, Bella. You have no idea how much."
***

Chapter 25

I woke up surrounded by the sweet, slightly musky smell of Edward's skin. I savored the
warm feeling of being wrapped in his arms and smushed up against his chest. I knew he was
awake because his fingers were drumming absently on the small of my back, sending waves
of goosebumps scattering over my skin.

"Are you awake?" he murmured, his fingers drifting lower.

I pushed my face closer to his chest, and my nose squished sideways over his heart.
"Mmmf."

He laughed and kissed my forehead. It was a deceptively sweet gesture, considering his
hands were now grabbing firmly onto my buttocks. I squirmed a little, shifting my left leg so
it draped over his hip. He was hard, not surprisingly considering our position and the time
of day. What was surprising was how playful he was being. Our mornings had been so quiet
and somber lately. I usually woke up before he did, and when I didn't, I woke up alone. To
have him here, very much awake and clearly in the mood, threw me off.

He ducked his head down and kissed the side of my neck, pulling me from my thoughts and
making me shiver. "I've been waiting for you to wake up," he whispered. I felt the tip of his
tongue run over the edge of my ear.

"Is that so?" I breathed. My lips were close enough to his chest that they dragged over skin
as I spoke.

"Mmhmmm." His hands flexed and I gasped. "You kept talking in your sleep. So many false
alarms."

I pulled back to look at his face. "Talking?" Oh no. I used to talk in my sleep as a child. My
mother used to have whole conversations with me as I slept, but it hadn't been a problem in
years. Rose never mentioned it in the three years we roomed together in college. "What did
I say?"

"Mostly my name," he said smugly. "But toward the end you kept talking about home, and
Paris." His voice dropped a little lower, and he pulled my face up to his for a kiss,
temporarily releasing my behind. "Are you getting homesick? We've almost got things
wrapped up here, I'm sure between my father and Garrett, Royce will be taken care of in no
time."

There was false confidence in his tone, and a hint of bravado. We had fallen asleep shortly
after our escapades last night, but I for one was anxious to talk to Ed about what our next
steps would be. The whole thing had been almost too simple, and I wouldn't rest easily until
Royce was behind bars and couldn't come after anyone anymore.

I shook off my uneasiness and thought about Edward's question. Truthfully, I hadn't been
homesick for weeks.

"No," I finally said. "I'm not. What about you?"

"Me?" he asked in surprise. "What about me?"

"Well..." I hesitated, not quite sure how to say it. "With your father here and everything. I
thought you'd be a little, I don't know, nostalgic?"

His arms snaked around me again and hugged me tightly, but he didn't say anything.

"It's okay to miss your home, Edward," I said. That caught his attention for some reason,
and he looked down at me with a frown.

"Paris is my home," he said firmly. Then he seemed to realize what he said, and his brow
softened a little bit. "That's not right. Home is wherever you are. If you weren't in Paris,
there would be nothing for me here."

I kissed him, unable to control the surge of desire and love that rushed through me. He
rolled us slightly, and then I was pressed down into the mattress, his warm weight pushing
me down, surrounding me.

When I pulled away for a breath, I reached up to gently cup his cheek. "I feel exactly the
same way."

His answering smile was brilliant, and for a few minutes I was lost in soft touches and
passionate kisses. A knot was forming in the pit of my stomach, and I knew this was the
perfect time to tell him what I had decided. Home was with Edward, and Edward's home, as
he said, was here. Nothing else mattered.

I forced my lips away from his, groaning lightly as he continued to trail sloppy, wet kisses
over my neck and shoulders. His hands palmed my breasts, squeezing me just roughly
enough to make the pleasant tingle between my legs surge.

"Edward," I gasped, placing my hands firmly on his shoulders. He was dragging his lips
down the curve of my right breast, and while I was definitely interested in where he was
headed, the need to tell him about what I wanted—no, needed—was too strong. I pushed
down until he looked up, confused.

"Did you not want—"

"So much," I sighed, but kept him at arm's length.

"Then...why?" He looked so endearingly confused that I kissed him again.

"I need to tell you something."

He arched an eyebrow and nodded, encouraging me to continue.

"Do you promise you'll listen to what I have to say and not try to change my mind?"

He got a wary look in his eye. "No. Absolutely not."

I sighed and fell back onto my pillow. "It's nothing bad, I promise."

"I don't care," he said firmly. "Remember what you said last night? We're in this together.
No matter what. That means neither one of us gets to make decisions without input."

I wrinkled my nose, but nodded. "Okay."

"Okay. So..." he prompted. His beautiful green eyes looked so worried.

"I don't want to go back to America," I said quickly, as if speaking faster would make this
conversation easier. I was prepared for him to argue, so I kept talking, determined to get
my whole statement out before he commented. "I want to stay here, with you. I know you
said you'd come back with me, but I don't think I fit there anymore. You'd be miserable, and
so would I."

I kissed him again, trying to pull strength from the feel of his lips. "I love you. I'm happy
here in Paris. I'm happy with you. If you want to try going back to London, I'll be right there
with you. I don't want to be separated from you."

"Bella," he breathed, but he didn't continue. We just stared at each other, his features
stretched in stunned confusion, mine concentrated and, I hoped, sincere. "Bella, are you
sure? Your family, school—"

"What about them?" I interrupted. "If we went back to Washington you'd be just as far away
from your family and your life. The only difference would be that we'd both be unhappy
there. Edward, we can be happy here."

"You're sure?" he asked again, the hint of a smile finally filtering through. "You want to stay
here?"

"I'm positive," I whispered, weaving my fingers through his always-unruly hair and pulling
his lips to mine. He met me with a forceful passion that I almost wasn't ready for, sucking
my tongue into his mouth and moaning with abandon.

He was already positioned above me, and I couldn't have moved if I wanted to. His hands
started to wander again, no longer so feather light as they forged burning trails down my
side and across my stomach. I gasped when his lips closed over my nipple, pulling my
attention from his hands and making me arch my back. A funny half-squeak, half-purr left
my throat, and he laughed as he reached across me to the bedside table.

"Damn," he muttered as he pulled back with the French letter in his hand.

"Is something wrong?" I asked breathily. He shifted a little, and I felt his hardness move
closer to me. Just a little to the right and we'd be connected. My body was humming, and I
had to fight to stay still. I never would have described myself as a sexual creature before
Paris, but with Edward I was insatiable.

"This is my last one," he sighed, tossing the empty case over his shoulder. It clattered to the
ground somewhere near the corner of the room.

"Well, let's make it count then," I suggested with a sly smile. Unable to resist, I rotated my
hips a little, feeling a groan rip through his chest as he struggled to put it on without
separating himself from me. His answer wasn't verbal.

Almost immediately I felt him fill me in a fast, fluid movement, one hand still working me
quickly as he started to kiss his way back up to my lips.

I thought I knew what this felt like—Edward moving in me, through me, the two of us
twisted together and gasping for breath. I should have been used to the sensations that
ripped through me by now, and the sounds of sweaty skin slapping together lightly as we
tangled between his sheets. The plain truth of the matter, though, was that every time was
different. There would be no getting used to it, no gradual decay into boredom or routine. I
simply knew, deep down, that even if I spent the rest of my life trying, I would never
experience everything that there was to know and feel with Edward.

He pulled me closer into his chest and sat up abruptly, changing our angle and wrapping his
arms around my hips as we continued to move together. My eyes flew open in surprise and
pleasure, and Edward chuckled a little as his eyes locked with mine.

"Shhhhhh. Just feel," he murmured. I didn't close my eyes again, preferring to watch his
eyes narrow in concentration. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead, and I focused on
it as the tingling between my legs started to build and radiate outward.

"That's it," I gasped, breaking eye contact and gripping his shoulders tightly as we sped up
again. He leaned forward and started kissing the crook of my neck, his movements
increasingly erratic until finally he shuddered and collapsed, letting me fall back onto the
pillows and resting his head on my breast over my thundering heart.

"Wow," he said eventually, dropping a kiss on the nape of my neck and rolling off of me.

"Mmmhmm," I hummed absently, not ready to open my eyes yet. When he came back to
bed, he pulled the covers over our bodies and wrapped his arm around my waist, his
stomach and chest flush to my back. We just laid there, soaking in the feeling. The sun was
up now, peeking through the dirty skylight and reminding us that there were things to do
today. We had to talk with Ed, break the news to Rose, and sometime in there I had to go to
work. We had lives to live.

I laughed lightly at the thought.

"What is it?" he asked. I could feel his smile against my neck.

"It's just... this is our life now. Our lives, Edward. You and me."

He laughed, a happy, free sound that rang from his chest. "I'm looking forward to it, Bella."
He kissed my neck and whispered in my ear, "So very much."

A half an hour later we were sitting in the kitchen with Ed, sipping terrible coffee. I had
tried to make myself presentable, but I was afraid that my messy waves and too bright eyes
were a dead giveaway for what we had been up to this morning. I wanted very much to
make a good impression on Ed. Maybe Edward thought he didn't need a relationship with
his parents, but it was possible that it wouldn't always be that way. And with everything I
had heard about Kate looming over me, I didn't want to give Ed any reasons to think that I
was less than worthy of his son.

"Have you heard anything from Garrett yet, Dad?" Edward asked. His face was calm,
betraying nothing, but under the table I saw his hands clench into tight fists. I put my hand
on his knee and patted him softly.

"We spoke this morning," Ed said. He took a sip of his coffee and winced. "The Police
Nationale don't have anything concrete yet, but Garrett thinks there's a solid chance that
James will cooperate. He's already let a few vague hints go. I think with the proper
motivation he'll give us the information we need to arrest Royce."
"What about Royce?" I asked. "What if he hears that James is talking and tries to run?"

"It's a possibility," Ed admitted. "But even if he runs, he has to return to London first. And
we'll get him there."

"Are you sure?" Edward asked, his voice grim and slightly accusatory. "After all, the Police
Nationale haven't been able to scrape together a case against him in years. What makes you
think they'll be able to arrest him if he runs?"

"I'm not a complete novice, Edward," Ed sighed. "I did my homework before I left London.
Scotland Yard has been building a case on him for a long time, but they haven't been able to
touch him in France. If he tries to go home, they'll be able to arrest him. That, combined
with what the French have got, will be enough to convict him of a number of crimes. I have
quite a few connections. You needn't worry."

Edward just stared at his father, completely nonplussed. "Connections," he said flatly. "I
see."

The tension that always lingered between the two men seemed to thicken and surge. They
stared each other down. I knew Edward had questions for his father, and their silent war
had gone on for far too long. It would have to stop, and soon. But for now...

"Edward? I have to go to work now. Should I find Carlisle, or...?"

"I'll walk you," he said immediately, still staring at his father. Ed gave him a smile and a
little nod, and he blinked and looked over at me. "Let's go," he sighed.

"Are you okay?" I asked him quietly as we walked to the café. He looked down at me and
smiled.

"I'm..." He paused and blinked. "I'm not sure. It's been a very strange several weeks."

"I know what you mean," I chuckled, squeezing his hand. He smiled absently and swung our
hands back and forth between us.

"It's just that I always thought I knew exactly who my father was. He was boring and
consistent, snooty and stuck in his ways. He loved my mother and spent all his free time
lecturing me about behaving like a gentleman. That's how I remember him."

"And now?"

"Now, it seems like I was mistaken about a lot of things. What if I've had it wrong this whole
time?"

We stopped at the door to the café and he sighed. "I'm not sure about anything anymore."
I reached up to touch his face, smoothing his hair back from his forehead and trying to
erase the deep worry lines that creased his forehead. "Talk to him, Edward. It's the only
way you're going to get the answers you want."

"I don't know," he said slowly.

Kissing his cheek, I turned and walked toward the doors. "Think about it, Edward. I can't
make you do anything you don't want to do, but I think if you give the idea some time, you'll
realize you need to do this in order to move forward."

He gave me a crooked smile and a nod. "Okay, I'll think about it." Then he straightened out
his grin and shook his finger sternly. "Wait here for Emmett tonight. I have to play the early
set at Le Tabou, so he's going to come and walk you back home, okay?"

I nodded and blew him a kiss before walking inside.

"Bonjour," I called to Angelique and Pierre as I wrapped my apron around my waist. "Ça
va?"

Pierre gave me an absent wave from his spot behind the counter and Angelique grinned
and walked over to talk to me.

"Very well, thank you," she said sweetly. "Did you sleep well?"

"Très bien," I answered.

We chatted back and forth, trading French and English until Pierre cleared his throat loudly
and glared at us. Angelique burst into giggles and I rolled my eyes, but we got to work.

Later in the afternoon, Marguerite wandered into my section of outdoor tables. She was
carrying a sheaf of loose leaf papers and a fountain pen, and for a few minutes I simply
watched her arrange everything in impeccable order, straightening pages and testing the
nub of her pen.

Before she could focus too entirely on her writing, I walked up to her table.

"Bonjour, Marguerite."

She looked up and smiled. "Bella," she said with a nod. "Nice to see you again."

"Can I get you anything?"

"A coffee and a menu, chérie."

I nodded and scurried off to get her order. The stern, older woman had been in my thoughts
ever since I met her. She was the first honest to goodness female writer I had spoken to, and
it was obvious she loved her work. When I asked Esme about her, she gushed for 15
minutes about Mademoiselle Badeau and her fabulous short stories. She even had a copy of
one of Marguerite's early manuscripts, bound in worn leather and printed on a hand press.
Edward was helping me translate it from French, and though we hadn't made a lot of
headway, I was completely enthralled with what I had been able to read. Her writing was
honest and plain. It was like she had granted me a seat inside her head, and I was privy to
all her thoughts in one streamlined, perfectly articulated fashion.

I was hoping she would return to the café so I could talk to her about my own writing.
Honestly, she scared me half to death, but I also knew that she would be blunt with me
about the quality of my work. I wanted that honesty.

"Where are your friends today?" I asked, setting the coffee cup down in front of her.

"Probably still sleeping," she snorted. "The fools were out until 4 a.m. I prefer to get a little
more sleep than that."

I smiled and nodded. "Me too. My friend Alice loves to stay out late, but I just can't get used
to keeping those hours. I know it's not very Parisian of me, but late nights are difficult for
me."

She snorted. "Well you're not exactly Parisian, now, are you, young one?"

My cheeks flushed and I looked down at my feet. "I suppose not."

When I looked up, she was staring at me critically. "And yet, here you are. Why is that?"

"It's a long story," I laughed.

She kicked out the chair across from her and my eyes widened. "Oh no," I stuttered. "I
couldn't. I'm working."

She looked around at the empty tables that surrounded her. Angelique was lounging
against the wall chatting with Benjamin, and Pierre was snoozing at the counter. "Yes, it
looks like things are quite busy," she said dryly.

I sighed and sat down hesitantly. "What do you want to know?" The blunt force of her stare
was intimidating.

"Everything, bien sûr."

So I started at the beginning with Alice's letter and my decision to leave for Paris. She
peppered me with questions about leaving home and my journey to France, especially my
ocean voyage. She wanted to know how I felt when I got off the train in Paris, and the first
thing I smelled when I left the train station.
It took me most of the afternoon to get my story out. People started to trickle in, and I was
forced to split my time between chatting with Marguerite and actually doing my job. I
caught a few pointed stares from Pierre, but my customers were taken care of and my work
was done, so he couldn't really complain.

The end of my shift found me cleaning off the tables and telling Marguerite about the raid
on Le Tabou. She seemed completely taken by my words; she had stopped asking questions
a half hour ago and was watching me with rapt attention.

"And now? What do you intend to do when all of this is behind you?" she asked after I had
finished the story.

"Well, that's why I wanted to talk to you," I said slowly, not daring to look her in the eye. I
took a deep breath. "I'm... I'm going to stay in Paris. And I want to try to write."

She nodded as if this made perfect sense. "You have an excellent grasp of storytelling. I'd
love to see your draft."

"What draft?" I said blankly. "I have some notebooks with a few short stories and some
character sketches."

"Don't be silly," she snapped. "That is your story, Bella. The foreigner, arriving in a strange
land and giving up everything for a friend. Living as an alien in a city where you don't speak
the language. Surely you see the potential?"

"I suppose so," I murmured. "I started something that's more abstract about growing up,
but—"

"That is the subtext of course," she said airily. "You don't want to beat your readers over the
head with it. It's not your style."

"My style?"

"Yes, your style, child! The way you shape your words, the choices you make. Writing is
about choices. Every word, every comma, every phrase is a choice. Your choices define who
you are as a writer and an artist."

I stared at her, wishing that I was carrying my notepad and pen at that moment.

"Bah, I cannot explain. You will give me something you have written, and then I will show
you."

"When?" I breathed. It was everything I was prepared to beg her for, and she was just
offering it to me as if it was no big deal. I didn't want to blink in case she changed her mind.
"When is Esme's next party? I'll come and you will show me these notebooks of yours."

"I think there's one the day after tomorrow."

"Perfect. I'll be there."

A shrill whistle startled me before I could thank her. "Hey, kid, get the lead out!"

I whipped my head around and saw Emmett standing on the sidewalk with his hands in his
pockets. He grinned and gave me a little wave. Marguerite gave him a disapproving look,
but he only laughed and bowed. I rolled my eyes.

"Sorry, I think that's my cue to take my leave. I'll see you at Esme's party though, right?" I
was still a little bit in disbelief, and something in me had to confirm that she was really
going to look at my writing.

"Of course, of course," she said, dismissing me with a sharp wave of her hand.

I checked in with Pierre and tossed my apron to Angelique before running out to where
Emmett still stood on the sidewalk.

"Ready, short stack?" he asked. When I nodded, he threw his arm around my shoulders and
we started walking. He seemed in a hurry to get home, which I said out loud after I almost
tripped because he was walking so fast.

"Sorry," he said, slowing down to a more sedate pace—sedate for Emmett, that is, I was still
jogging a little to keep up with his long strides. "Rose got her crutches today and when I left
Alice was walking into her room with an armful of ribbons. Alice can be a little
overwhelming, and I don't want—"

"Rose to eat Alice for supper?" I finished, laughing a little.

"Well... kind of," he admitted.

"Still a little scarred from the other day, huh?"

"No, it's not that." He paused, seeming to collect his thoughts. "She doesn't like being
helpless. I didn't mean to, but I was making her feel more helpless with the way I was
treating her."

"Exactly," I said, happy that he understood Rose so quickly. Most people were a little put off
by her refusal to be treated like a declawed kitten, especially because she was so beautiful.
"I think it's because she's always kind of had to look out for herself. Her parents died when
she was four, and her aunt raised her. Helen worked a lot, so Rose was either looking out
for herself or over at my house. My parents aren't exactly the kind to coddle a child, even a
pretty one." Emmett snorted and I gave him a wry smile.
"She's a lot like my mom," he said softly. "Independent, strong. Imogene McCarty never
takes anything lying down." His face seemed to brighten as he grinned mischievously down
at me. "So today I'm trying a new strategy."

"What's that?"

"You'll see," he laughed, refusing to say anything else, even though I pestered him.

Emmett's fears about Alice weren't that far off. Rose's bed was covered in piles of silk and
fluttery ribbons, and Alice sat in the center, winding her crutches with pink and blue and
green. Rose sat in her wheelchair, looking impatient and more than a little annoyed.

Alice was talking her ear off, providing a steady stream of conversation with no need for
Rose to contribute. For a while, Alice had felt so guilty about Rose's situation that every
time she came to visit the room was filled with tense silences and awkward pauses. Then
one day, not long after Rose had opened up to me and Esme, I had walked into Rose's room
to find the two of them curled up in her bed, teary eyed but smiling. I didn't ask either of
them what had happened, but things seemed to get better after that.

"Finally," Rose sighed when Emmett and I walked in. "Bella, will you tell her that my
crutches are fine and if I don't get to stand up soon she's going to seriously regret it once
I'm walking again."

She was grumpy and glaring and more than likely actually cranky, but I couldn't help but
smile. She sounded alive. Still, no need to push our luck.

"Alice, those are very, um, pretty, but don't you think you should let Rose try to start
moving around?"

She scowled. "Pretty?"

"Stylish?" I tried again. She sighed loudly, but stood up and relinquished the crutches,
muttering something about Philistines in the Holy Land. I walked over to Rose and
crouched in front of her crutches. "You ready to go?"

She scrunched her eyebrows together, and for a second I saw fear and sadness flash in her
bright blue eyes. Emmett must have seen it too, because he leaned over and picked one of
the crutches up from her lap.

"Doesn't seem terribly difficult," he mused, hunching over and leaning heavily on it.
"Anyone with half a brain could do it."

"I don't think brains have anything to do with it," Rose said coldly, though fear still lurked
in her eyes. "And if they did, it wouldn't help you any."
"Ouch," laughed Emmett. "I thought we were friends, Rosie."

"Don't call me that," she said, sounding more and more frustrated.

"What? Your name?" he asked innocently. "Okay, how about Sam?"

"My name is Rosalie."

He grinned, she glared, and Alice gaped. Emmett's "new strategy" was apparently making
her so angry that she launched herself out of her wheelchair through sheer willpower. She
looked like she was ready to give it a shot.

"Anyway," Emmett continued, "I doubt you have the upper body strength to use these. I
could wrap one hand around your arm."

That was the last straw.

"Hand it over," she growled. He simply arched an eyebrow at her. "Now."

"Okay, okay," he said. He gave it back to her and held up his hands defensively. "Go ahead.
But don't say I didn't warn you."

She didn't respond, merely curled her lip and gritted her teeth. "Bella, can you steady my
chair for a second?"

Emmett crossed his arms and leaned casually against the wall. His whole attitude was one
of studied indifference. He simply quirked his eyebrow, like he was daring her.

"Rose," I started.

"Just do it, Bella." She was practically snarling. I shut up and steadied the back of her chair
while Alice propped the crutches up. Rose put her feet on the ground, gingerly at first but
then with more confidence as she leaned into the crutches and hoisted herself up. It took
her a couple of minutes to steady herself but once she had she smiled triumphantly.

"No upper body strength?" she gloated.

"Standing's the easy part," Emmett said easily. "It's not like you've gotten anywhere."

Angry pink spots burned into the apples of her cheeks. Her bruises were gone now, and she
was starting to fill out a little, putting on the weight she had lost. With the little bit of color
her anger had given her, she looked radiant.

"Fine," she fumed. "Then watch me."

I kept right up behind her, just in case she fell backwards, but I wasn't stupid enough to
touch her. She was determined to do this, and I wasn't about to stop her.

Slowly, she stuck one foot out, swinging her arm swiftly so that she could continue to move
forward. About half way across the room, she had to stop and lean on my shoulder for a
second. Emmett's smile widened as she took a couple of deep breaths, but she was past
acknowledging him. Her anger was still simmering just below the surface, but there was
something else now. Her mouth was set in a thin line and her eyes burned with an energy I
hadn't seen there in a long time, even back in Seattle.

When she reached the wall where Emmett was leaning, she straightened up as tall as she
could and looked him in the eye.

"Okay, okay," Emmett said, putting his hands up again, this time in surrender. "Maybe
you're stronger than you look, Rosie."

Her eyes flashed, and without another word she turned and walked the length of the room
again, faster this time and with more confidence. When she reached her chair, she didn't
wait for me to steady her. She simply reached behind her with one arm and while keeping
her balance with the other.

"Maybe?"

He just ducked his head and smiled before walking out of her room.

"Well." She preened a little, then seemed to remember that Alice and I were in the room. I
could tell the instant she realized it because her smile faltered a little and she cleared her
throat. "Well, I guess I showed him."

She turned her chair to face out the window, closed her eyes, and smiled into the sun.

"Yeah," I murmured, staring out into the hallway where Emmett had disappeared moments
ago. "I guess you did."
***

Chapter 26

"Edward, should I show her this one about Marie, or this one I wrote last week down by the
river?"

I pulled my eyes away from her face to look at the loose leaf paper Bella was waving in my
face.

"Bella, show her either one. Or show her both. I already told you I thought they were
brilliant." And that was absolutely true. After Bella had met this woman at the café who'd
agreed to take a look at her writing, she'd finally caved in and let me read some of it. She
was great at it, of course. Bella was great at everything. But she wouldn't take my word for
it and was incredibly nervous about Marguerite's arrival.

"You're no help at all," she muttered.

"Bella, darling, just relax. You can do this."

She sighed and stuffed her papers back into her notebook. "I'm just so nervous. She's a real
writer."

I slid my hand up under her hair and gripped the back of her neck gently as I leaned in to
her ear. "So are you."

Her face finally softened as she turned to smile at me. The way she looked tonight literally
took my breath away. She was always beautiful, but Alice had brought home this black
dress tonight that was absolutely stunning on her. The neckline was so wide that it was
nearly off her shoulders and it dipped into a deep v in front. The dark fabric set off her pale
skin and dark hair and eyes. She was striking and sexy and all mine. I ran a hand up over
her nipped-in little waist, over her ribcage, stopping just shy of the bottom of her breast.
Her breath caught and her eyes darkened a little and my brain clouded over with lust.

I was such a stupid, arrogant prat. I knew Bella was innocent when we met, and I thought
that meant that I'd be holding myself in check with her for a long time as she grew
accustomed to us and our intimacy. Stupid, stupid me. How could I have known how she
would respond to me, to my kisses, to my touch? How could I have known that after the
initial awkwardness, her desire would match mine at every turn? And I never guessed that
I'd become so totally and completely enslaved to her, to her lips, her skin, her body.
Because I was enslaved, wholly. All she had to do was look at me and I was nearly on my
knees. It might be ridiculous and a little pathetic, but I didn't care in the least.

Right now I wanted nothing more than to drag her into some dark corner and kiss her and
touch her and explore everything hidden by her pretty dress.

Only the sound of sharply raised voices overhead kept me from doing it.

"Emmett, I swear if you don't get out of my way…"

"Rose, you practically broke your neck on the first step!"

There was a party tonight, the first really big shindig Esme had thrown since Rose had come
to stay. At first, Bella had assumed that Rose would want to stay in her room, and she'd
planned on staying with her to keep her company. Plus, at Esme's, empty bedrooms often
didn't stay that way as the hour got later and people got drunker, so she wanted to stand
guard and fend off wandering lovers. But Rose surprised everyone by announcing her
intention to actually come downstairs for the party.
Alice had flown into a frenzy, dragging home armloads of dresses, and for once she had a
grateful recipient. Rose actually seemed to enjoy going through them with her, unlike Bella.
Bella was delighted to see Rose show an interest in anything at all at this point and helped
her pick out one she liked. Rose had chased the two of them off a few minutes ago, though,
to finish getting ready on her own, and now Bella and Alice were killing time downstairs in
the parlor with Jasper and me. But it seemed Rose had made up her mind to try and get
down the stairs herself and Emmett was having none of it.

"Will you stop fussing, you brute?"

"Keeping you from killing yourself isn't exactly fussing!"

Alice went running out of the front parlor behind Bella and the two of them peered up the
stairs anxiously. Jasper and I followed after and the four of us waited at the foot of the stairs
to listen to the impasse work itself out.

"Rose?" Bella called up the stairs. "Do you need a hand?"

"No, I do not!" Rose snapped from overhead. "Which is exactly what I'm trying to tell this
big bully!"

"Rosie," Emmett broke in, "you just can't go down the stairs on crutches in a splint."

"Really? Watch me!"

There was the sound of a slight scuffle and then Rose shrieked. Bella started up the stairs,
but Alice's hand shot out and grabbed her by the arm. Bella looked back at her and Alice
just raised her eyebrows.

"Put me down!" Rose shouted.

"Uh-uh. Forget about it," Emmett muttered.

"You're going to get us killed, you moron!"

"Oh, now you think the stairs are dangerous?"

"No, I think you're dangerous, you crazy person!"

As Emmett clomped down the stairs with a wriggling, furious Rose in his arms, her crutches
clamped under one arm, we all fell back several feet to make room. And frankly, to get out
of the line of fire. Rose looked like she could spit nails. When he reached the ground floor
entryway, Emmett crouched and gently set Rose down on her feet. She yanked free of him
angrily then looked down to smooth her dress back in place. Then without a word, her
eyelids fluttered and she began to sink to the floor. Emmett was there like a shot to catch
her just as the rest of us had barely begun to move.

"Woah, there!" Emmett said, holding her up as Rose's eyes snapped back open.

"Rose?" Bella asked, coming forward to lay her hand on Rose's cheek. "Do you want to go
back upstairs and lie down?"

"No!" Rose's voice was surprisingly strong considering she just nearly fainted. "I can't bear
to spend another minute lying in that bed like some invalid."

I exchanged a quick smile with Bella, since that was exactly what Rose was, but nobody
wanted to be the one to tell her that.

"Alright, then, Rosie," Emmett said amiably. "Let's just get you settled in the parlor."

He stooped down and lifted one of Rose's arms over his shoulders as he put an arm around
her waist. She didn't protest; she just let him help her into the front parlor where he gently
lowered her onto one of the low sofas and picked her feet up so she was partly reclining.

Bella grabbed my wrist and pulled me after her as we followed them in. Emmett was
perched carefully on the sofa next to Rose's stretched out form, adjusting a pillow behind
her back.

"There now," he said. "All set?"

Rose's eyes flickered up to his face. "All set," she said softly. "Thank you."

Emmett paused for just a second before he answered her quietly. "No problem."

Bella looked to me, eyes wide with disbelief at the tender little display we'd witnessed.
Nobody said anything for a moment, then Alice cleared her throat.

"Hey, Bella, help me get the wine glasses down? Jazz, Edward, can you guys hit the wine
cellar and see what Esme's got for tonight?"

"Um, yeah. Of course. Come on, Jasper."

Jasper gratefully left the room close on my heels. Bella and Alice were right in front of us,
heads together, whispering urgently.

"What the hell was that about?" Jasper grumbled.

I held up my hands in defense. "I can't begin to guess, and I'm staying out of it."

"Good plan," he growled.

It took us quite a while to sort out the wine since we'd just about finished bringing the
bottles up from the cellar when Carlisle poked his head in and told us to bring up an
entirely different set and we had to start all over. By the time we'd gotten it all settled and
each acquired a glass of our own, the house had started to fill with people and the girls had
been absorbed into the crowd.

I made my way back to the front parlor with a glass of wine for Bella, thinking she would be
with Rose. But instead, Emmett was still perched on the couch, having a quiet conversation
with her, so I backed out of the room again. I headed back through the first floor, still on the
prowl for Bella. I finally found her in the dining room with Alice.

Alice was standing on a chair, demonstrating to a small group of people how the gold fringe
on the top of the drapes would look smashing across the top of her dress. Bella was in the
cluster of people, but her attention was taken up with Julian, who'd shown up at some point
tonight. Julian, the Bird Man. I stepped up behind her, ready to rescue her from an
undoubtedly awkward conversation with him, but instead I was surprised to find the two of
them deep in discussion.

"Did you read the essay I told you about?" Julian was asking.

"I did," Bella nodded, "and I see what you mean. You were exactly right about the
symbolism, but I'm not sure it holds the same iconic resonance that the novel did."

Julian shook his head quickly. "There's another one you must read, one of his earlier pieces.
I'll ask Esme, I'm sure she has it. You read that, and then tell me what you think!"

"Bella?" I interjected, uncertainly.

She turned to me and smiled. "Edward! I was just catching up with Julian."

"I see that. Hi, Julian. Bella, do you want to help me pick out some records to play?"

"Sure!" she said before turning back to Julian., "Tell Esme which one I should read, we'll
talk next time."

Julian was all smiles as he patted her hand indulgently before he turned away.

"What was that?" I asked, stunned.

"Julian," she shrugged. "You know Julian."

"Of course I know Julian. When did you get to know him so well?"

"Around here, Edward. Julian's always here. You should talk to him sometime about books.
He's read absolutely everything. His taste is a bit eccentric and he's got a few crazy notions
about things, but he can be so insightful in his way."
Bella took the extra glass of wine from me and took a deep pull from it, her eyes sparkling
at me over the rim of her glass. Her lips, darkened with wine, made me think all kinds of
bad, lascivious thoughts, and without a word I stepped towards her, forcing her back. She
startled a little, but once she caught the look in my eye, her lips curled up in a smile every
bit as lascivious as mine and let me back her into the corner of the dining room.

I leaned in and kissed her lips softly, and then moved on to the curve where her neck
turned into her shoulder. That spot had been calling to me ever since she came downstairs
in this dress and I really wanted a taste. She sighed softly as my lips came in contact with
her skin and I reached out with my free hand to grasp her hip.

"Bonjour, Bella!"

The sound of someone calling her name startled me and I straightened up. Jean Paul, our
own resident political hothead was passing through the dining room and was smiling,
waving in a friendly way at Bella.

"Oh!" she said in surprise, "Jean Paul! Nice to see you!"

"Delightful to see you, ma chère. Enjoy your evening, although it seems you already are."

He kissed the tips of two fingers and made her a jaunty little salute as he passed on towards
the kitchen.

"I didn't know you knew Jean Paul," I said.

"Edward, he's here all the time. Of course I know him."

"I've never seen him so…friendly. He's usually too busy screaming about Algeria to be
polite."

Bella waved a dismissive hand. "We had a good chat one night. He's just very passionate and
feels misunderstood."

"And he thinks you understand him?" I couldn't keep the growl out of my voice.

"Come on, you," she murmured with a smile, laying her hand against my cheek reassuringly,
"Let's go check on Rose."

She started through the house ahead of me, holding my hand, pulling me after her, smiling
now and then at someone she knew. I shook my head in disbelief, unsure where this
confident, sophisticated girl had come from. I remembered the first night I brought her
here, when she'd trailed after me through the house, barely speaking and seemingly
overwhelmed at every turn. That was all gone. This girl was at ease, comfortable,
surrounded by friends…she was home. With me. She turned to look at me over her
shoulder, her smooth, bare shoulder that I still wanted to attack with my mouth, and her
face lit up with a smile. My heart sputtered to a stop in my chest and I felt my own stupid
grin splitting my face. I loved her and she loved me and we were home.

I was feeling on top of the world. Everything life had to offer was mine. There was nothing I
wanted that I didn't already have. Then we rounded the corner into the front parlor and
found my dad talking with Esme and that feeling dissipated like smoke. Because while my
life here in Paris was turning out to be just about perfect, I was beginning to realize that my
life in Paris was not all there was to me. There was a life I left behind in London. And I was
going to have to face it…soon.

Bella sensed my change in mood and pulled me into her side, looking up at my face
questioningly.

"What is it?" she whispered.

"Just…this. Me and my family. I think you're right, Bella. I need to talk to him."

She smiled gently and squeezed my hand. "It will be okay. And it'll be really good for you."

"I know, it's just…."

"Hard," she finished for me. "Trust me, I get it. I still need to call my dad and tell him I'm
staying here with you. I can't even imagine what a disaster that's going to be."

"Hey," I murmured, letting go of her hand so I could slip my arm around her waist, "I'll be
there. It's our future, we'll face it as a team, right?"

She smiled faintly, not looking at all reassured. I didn't blame her. Talking to Bella's father
filled me with dread and I was still half-expected him to show up in Paris any day now,
ready to beat me to a bloody pulp and drag her back home. Trying to win him over as I told
him that his daughter was moving to the other side of the world to be with me…no, I wasn't
looking forward to it at all.

My dad was chatting with Esme and Carlisle, all three of them smiling and occasionally
laughing. Rose was still on the sofa across the room, and Emmett was still sitting with her,
telling her some story that had her smiling.

"Why, look who's come!" Esme's trilling voice rang out through the parlor as Garrett
appeared at the door in all his blustering, red-faced glory.

"Esme! My favorite bonny Parisian girl! It's been years since I've been to one of your
parties," he boomed. Esme smiled indulgently and crossed to him, kissing him soundly on
each cheek, marking him with her lipstick as she always did. Bella slipped away from me
and went to crouch next to Rose on the sofa, no doubt explaining who Garrett was.
A few moments passed as my father and Garrett exchanged hellos and Carlisle appeared
with a full glass of wine for him. The four of them stood together for just a few minutes
laughing and talking, and I was once again struck by how my father seemed to slip right
into their company so easily. I would have thought he'd hate Esme's house and all the crazy
people here, but he seemed to be having the time of his life. I just didn't know what to make
of him at all anymore.

Jasper and Alice must have heard Garrett's huge voice echoing through the first floor
because they appeared in the parlor just a few minutes later. Jasper fell into conversation
with them immediately, making me feel like a malcontent, scowling in the corner by myself,
so I crossed the room, smiling hesitantly at my dad. The look of sheer relief and delight on
his face at the sight of me willingly coming to talk to him made the guilt claw at my chest. It
was impossible for me to doubt that he genuinely cared for me and wanted to fix our
situation. Now I just needed to man up and take the next step. But not tonight.

"So, Garrett," Jasper asked, "you know Esme and Carlisle from the war, then?"

"Ach, Esme came later, didn't you, love? But Carlisle and I toughed it out in the trenches, eh?
I wouldn't be here today without this man!"

"I didn't know you saw combat," I said to Carlisle, slightly stunned.

Carlisle shook his head, "I didn't. But I did work with the Resistance. And Garrett here was
part of a Jed team." Jasper whistled appreciatively, but that word meant nothing to me. At
my puzzled expression Carlisle clarified, "The Jed teams were deep undercover agents for
the Allies. They were dropped into France by parachute in the middle of the night to take
up their assignments. Only poor Garrett here had the misfortune of landing on a fence in
the dark!"

Garret rolled his eyes dramatically, "Not only did that bloody pilot toss me out of the plane
thirty miles shy of the drop target, he dropped me right in the middle of a pig farm! I
practically impaled myself on that fence. Ach, the blood! The stench of those filthy pigs!"

"How did you figure in, Carlisle?" I asked. Everyone in the room had gradually crept closer
to hear their story.

"They asked me to go down and help out. With my medical training, I was the best they
could do."

"Bloody well saved me life!" Garrett blustered, clapping a hand on Carlisle's shoulders.
"Those were good times, eh, Carlisle?"

Esme rolled her eyes. "Only you could think back fondly on being impaled on a fence in a
strange country, an occupied country!"

"Ah, but Esme, didn't we have a purpose? Wasn't it noble?"

"Bah!" she snapped, "I'd hardly call it noble. The whole country starving, overrun with
Nazis. And you!" She pointed at him sternly, but there was humor and affection sparkling in
her eyes. "Sailing in and thinking you can pass yourself off as French!"

"Ach, you're just jealous that my French is better than yours, lass," Garrett winked at her.
Carlisle and my father cracked up at that, "Hard times, to be sure, but we fought the good
fight, eh?"

He slung an arm around Carlisle's shoulders and looked like he was about to get maudlin
and weepy, but thankfully my father noticed it, too, and jumped in to re-direct him.

"Ah, Garrett, I believe when we spoke earlier today you said you'd have some news for us?"

"Ach! Yes! That I do."

"Is James talking?" I pressed. I felt Bella step up behind me and her hand slipped into mine.

"He's already talked," Garrett clarified, and that steely determination of his had returned
full force in an instant. "The little rat has spilled his guts to save his own skin. Told us
everything we'd ever want to know about all his dirty dealings with Royce King. And dirty
they were."

"So?" I urged. "What happens now?"

"Well," Garrett rubbed the back of his neck, "Royce got wind of James turning rat and fled
the country."

The room audibly deflated as we all sank back in despair. Out of the corner of my eye I saw
Emmett reach out to pat Rose's hand reassuringly.

"Aye, but here's the catch," Garrett continued. "Based on the information James gave us
about his business dealings, we were able to freeze his French bank accounts a few days
ago. Now, I think the bastard was planning to set out for some tropical location that doesn't
look too favorably on extradition. But to get there and set himself up, he needs money. He
may have left his...ahem, his family behind in England," at this he cast an uneasy glance at
Rose, but she just kept her eyes fixed on her hands, "but he's been sending money home to
them the whole time. His own little version of an offshore account, I suppose you could say."

"What happens next?" I asked, "Can you get his accounts in England frozen, too?"

"No need, my boy. The English police arrested him this morning at the ferry terminal in
Dover."

As much as the air seemed to leave the room a few moments ago, now it felt like an electric
charge ran through it. Suddenly everyone was in motion and talking at once, a veritable
tornado of activity with Garrett right in the center. He held his hands up patiently until the
chattering died down to a manageable level.

"Tell us everything!" Bella said, laying her hand on his arm.

"Well, he didn't start his criminal activities when he landed in France after the war. He was
up to no good in England, too. There were allegations of the same sort of shenanigans, along
with accusations of war-profiteering. You might imagine that last one is a bit of a sore point
in England. Just like here, the man proved to be as slippery as an eel. Lots of things implied,
but nothing that could be proved. When the heat got a little too intense, he decamped for
France and started again. Except that the English authorities haven't been sitting on their
arses for the past six years. They've been building their case, especially as far as the war-
profiteering charges are concerned. There's a great deal of political pressure right now to
bring those vermin to justice."

My father cleared his throat then and chimed in. "When you called me, Edward, I spoke with
my contacts in the police department about the case against him. They felt the case was
strong enough for an arrest now, but extradition is quite a lengthy and involved process
and there wasn't quite the motivation to press on. Once I explained what he'd done here, a
few well-placed people felt the time had come to take the necessary steps."

"But the bastard saved them the trouble!" Garrett laughed. "Once we knew he'd made a run
for it, I made a phone call or two and made sure an army of officers was there in Dover to
meet him when the ferry docked."

Garrett rocked back on his heels, smiling and clearly satisfied with himself.

"So that's it, then? It's done?" Bella breathed.

"Aye, lass," Garrett said softly. "That's it."

"What happens to him now?"

Rose's unfamiliar voice, sounding so strong and firm, startled the room and everyone
turned to look at her. My father's face grew soft and he crossed the room so he could crouch
next to the sofa.

"The authorities won't let him get away now, Rosalie. He's facing a battery of criminal
charges, stemming from the extortion and the assaults he's ordered. And his name has
come up in a couple of missing persons cases. He's going to be quite busy explaining that.
We suspect now that he's securely behind bars, people might feel safe enough to tell what
they know about him. And aside from the criminal proceedings, the War Department will
be investigating him as regards the profiteering charges. We're coming at him from all
sides. He won't get free of us, I promise you that."

Rose's chin was up and her eyes were stony. "Good," she said shortly. "Because if he gets
away from you, he's going to be facing me, and I won't let him walk away with his life."

There was a stunned silence in the room at Rose's fierce declaration, then Emmett
muttered softly, "Good girl."

My father smiled at her and patted her hand. "We'll take care of him for you, Rose. This is
done."

"Thank you," she said softly.

I turned back to Garrett. "I can't thank you enough for your help, Garrett."

Bella was next to me, pressing his hand between both of hers. "Yes, thank you. It's so…I'm so
happy they caught him."

Garrett waved his massive hand dismissively. "Ah, it were nothing. And your father did a
fair bit as well, Eddie."

I ducked my chin as I glanced at my father, still across the room, now smiling and pulling up
a chair next to Rose. "I know he did," I murmured.

I felt Bella's hand close around mine and squeeze, and I squeezed back.

"Well, it's been a good day's work," Garrett nearly shouted, inhaling deeply. "I could use
something a fair bit stronger than wine. Esme, lass?"

She rolled her eyes at him but she was smiling as she hooked her arm in his and steered
him out of the room towards the dining room.

"I'm going to see if Rose is tired," Bella whispered. I nodded and touched her arm gently.

Bella crossed to Rose, who was laughing at something my father said to her.

"Rosie? Are you okay?" Bella asked, sinking down on the sofa next to her. "Do you want to
talk? Or do you need to rest?"

Rose smiled at Bella and reached out for her hand. "We'll talk tomorrow. Right now I want
to just be normal and maybe have a little fun," she said. Then she glanced over Bella's
shoulder and met my eyes briefly. "And you should, too, Bella. I think Edward wants you all
to himself for a little while."

"Are you sure, sweetie?"

"Go!" Rose said, waving her hand lightly. "Emmett will help me back upstairs when I'm
tired, won't you?"
Emmett smiled back at her. "Sure thing. Go have fun, short stack. Rose is in good hands
here."

Bella smiled and kissed Rose on the cheek before crossing the room to stand with me. I
slipped my arm around her waist when she got close enough. Bella closed her eyes and
wrapped her arms around my ribs, resting her cheek on my chest and sighing.

"I can't believe it's over," she whispered.

I rubbed my hand up and down her back. "I know how you feel. Come on, love."

I grasped her hand and pulled her after me, thinking of dragging her up the stairs and
finding some nice quiet corner where we could celebrate the good news properly. She
smiled up at me and let me pull her out of the parlor. We made it as far as the entry hall
before she fell into my arms and my lips found hers. We started out laughing and teasing,
but it was growing heated, my hands dug into her waist, her hands dug into my hair. I
needed her. I needed to be inside of her and I needed it soon. We were going to have to
escape up the garret immediately to finish this the way I wanted to.

"Mademoiselle Swan?"

A deep, gravely, woman's voice made me start back and release my grip on her.

"Oh!" Bella gasped, her hand flying instinctively to her hair to smooth it. "Marguerite! You
came!"

"Of course I came, my dear. I told you I would. But it seems you have your hands full just at
the moment."

The massive, stern-faced woman in the severe black suit standing in the open doorway was
eyeing me carefully through the smoke from her cigarette. I shifted and hunched a little,
hoping that my physical reaction to Bella would slip by unnoticed.

"Oh, this is just Edward," Bella said. I swiveled to raise my eyebrows at her in disbelief. Just
Edward? Bella caught herself and reached out for my hand. "Edward! This is my boyfriend,
Edward. Edward, this is Marguerite. You've been reading her book with me."

"Of course," I said, stepping forward and extending my hand to her. "Enchanté, Madame."

"It's Mademoiselle," she barked. "Pleased to meet you, Edward. Now, first things first. One
of you must take me to Esme Benoit! It's been far too long since I've seen that dear woman."

"Right this way!" Bella said, waving an arm towards the dining room. She looked back over
her shoulder at me apologetically. "We'll finish later!" she whispered, as she followed
Marguerite out of the entry way.
All I could do was smile at her. "Don't rush, love. We have all the time in the world."

Because for the first time since we met, that was the truth.
***

Chapter 27

I had been incredibly nervous about showing Marguerite my writing, but after talking to
her for about a half hour, I forgot why. She pushed me around, asking me questions I'd
considered before but hadn't really answered. Always it circled around to the singular
question: why? It was eye opening, and I found myself thinking more and more about the
story she had urged me to write. My story. When she described it, it didn't seem as daunting
somehow.

"She's just so ... I don't know, forceful? Thoughtful? Ugh, that's not the right word. I want to
be just like her. It makes me sound like a silly little girl, but it's true." Edward and I were
getting ready for bed after Esme's party. It was almost four in the morning, and I should
have been dead on my feet, but between Ed's news about Royce's arrest, the wine I had to
drink, and spending a few hours with Marguerite, who was officially my new hero, I was
completely keyed up.

Edward watched me from the bed, smiling lazily at me as I paced the room. He was half
naked and spread out over the entire mattress, his head propped up by a pile of pillows.

"You're not silly, love," he laughed. "But you're making me dizzy. Come to bed."

He patted the blanket next to him and smirked a little. I slid next to him and he immediately
wrapped his arms around my waist and started kissing me. I sighed a little and tilted my
head, shivering when he reached the crook of my neck.

"I think you had an ulterior motive, Mr. Cullen," I giggled.

"You promised me," he mumbled, moving his lips toward my chest and rolling me under
him. "I think it's later now."

He was pushing my nightdress up around my waist when I let out a loud, long yawn, the
kind that makes your eyes water and leaves you breathless for a few seconds. He stared at
me in shock for a second before laughing and propping himself up on one arm.

"Am I boring you?"

"No, no," I protested, then immediately interrupted myself with another huge yawn. "I just
never stay up this late and I think I'm...," another yawn, "slowing down."
He snorted and pulled back the covers. "That may be a slight understatement." He nudged
me until I rolled under the covers.

"You're so pushy," I grumbled, nuzzling his bare chest before kissing above his heart. I
yawned again. "I'm sorry, I didn't know I was this tired."

He laughed, jostling my head around as his chest shook. "Eh, it's okay. I can wait." He kissed
my forehead and then wrapped his arms around my back. "You're good for it. I know where
you live."

"Mmmf," I agreed. My eyes fluttered closed and I fell asleep listening to the steady thrum of
Edward's heart. Home.

The celebratory atmosphere still lingered in the air the next day. Alice and Esme were
trilling away at some song in the kitchen when Edward and I came down in the morning,
and the small table was crowded with our friends and family. Rose and Emmett were
talking in low murmurs, Ed and Jasper were exchanging stories about London, and Carlisle
was valiantly trying to steal his coffeepot back from Alice. It was noisy, and confusing, and
absolutely wonderful.

"There he is," Esme said loudly, cutting through the din as Edward and I entered. Ed looked
up from his conversation and smiled broadly.

"Slept the day away, have you?" he teased, nodding toward the clock.

Edward rubbed his neck and gave a half smile, clearly still a little uncomfortable with the
turn his relationship with his father had taken. "It's not so late."

"Not so late? It's a quarter of eleven," Ed laughed. He stood up and crossed to where we
stood. "I thought I'd take a walk down to see the sights today, and Carlisle tells me you paint
down by the Tower. Would you... would you consider showing me around?"

His smile dimmed a little, and something else crept into his tone. It was tentative and
cautious. There was a loaded silence as the two considered each other.

"Bella, would you like to go for a walk with us?" Edward asked a little desperately. I
considered it for a minute before shaking my head gently.

"You should go. Show your father the Île de la Cité. He'd like that. I have some things to do
here."

"But, but—" he stuttered, giving me a frustrated glare.

"You go and have fun," I said breezily. "You know where to find me. You know where I live,
remember?"
His eyes softened a little and he gave a weak chuckle, leaning into kiss me softly. "You're
right, I do."

"Oh, and Edward?"

"Hm?"

"You may know where I live... but my parents don't. I don't have to work today, so I thought,
I hoped, we could call them?"

The color drained from his cheeks. "Oh."

"We have plenty of time, though. Don't rush your walk. We'll call them this evening. That
way we can catch them after church and before they sit down to brunch."

He nodded and chewed on the inside of his cheek. "Right. Whatever you think is best."

Ed was following our conversation, his head bouncing back and forth as we talked. When
Edward didn't say anything else, he shook his head and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Come on, son. Let's get some fresh air. You look like you need it."

Edward stared at his father's hand, still resting solidly on his shoulder, then raised his eyes
to Ed's face. He shrugged his shoulders a little, and Ed's hand fell away.

"Okay."

After the two of them left, Esme burst into giggles.

"You Englishmen," she wheezed, poking Carlisle in the ribs. "Always proper, even when
you're terrified."

Carlisle cracked a smile. "Terrified? Whatever do you mean?"

"Our poor Edward, spending time alone with his father and meeting Bella's parents in the
same day," she answered. "I thought he would faint. And then there's your brother, who
could barely muster the courage to ask his son to go for a walk alone. The whole while
they're nodding and smiling, stiff as pokers. Your entire country needs to take some lessons
from the French!"

"I beg your pardon," Carlisle said. "I believe I resemble that remark."

"Yes, darling, but you wear it so well," she teased. He stopped her with a kiss, and she pulled
him closer.
"Bella?" Rosalie said softly. "Would you mind helping me to the WC?"

"That's upstairs, Rosie, I'll take you," Emmett said immediately.

"You can't carry me everywhere," she snapped. "I have to get used to these crutches, and
I'm going to have to start practicing stairs sooner or later. Bella will make sure I don't fall,
won't you?"

I wasn't about to say no while she was glaring at me like that, so I nodded. "Of course." He
looked unsure, so I added. "Why don't you meet us in Rose's room, Emmett?"

The walk to the second floor WC took about ten minutes, and we had to take several breaks,
but Rose made it there without any help from me, stairs and all. She still needed help
bathing, but she could manage everything else on her own, so I waited outside for her until
she was done. Then the two of us set off down the long hallway toward her room.

"I hate this," she sighed, catching herself as one of her crutches hit a snag in the carpeting
and made her stumble. "I feel so ... clumsy."

"You're getting better." I steadied her elbow and gave her an encouraging smile. "Just think.
In a few more weeks you'll be out of that cast. You'll be dancing in no time."

A shadow fell across her face. "Dancing," she said sadly. "I don't know."

"You're a beautiful dancer. Don't you remember our senior prom? You went with Jeremy
Piper, and he had to beat back the rest of the boys in our class with a stick just to keep you
to himself."

Emmett laughed as we entered the room. "I'd have loved to see that."

"She's exaggerating," Rose said gruffly, but she blushed prettily. "Jeremy was being
ridiculous. I didn't go out with him after that because he was too... he was too possessive."
The small smile she had worn slipped from her face, and she sank into the chair by her
window with a dejected sort of thump.

"I've never been much of a dancer, myself," Emmett said casually. "I stepped all over my
prom date, I'm afraid. She never looked at me twice after that."

Rose snorted. "I'm not surprised. You've got all the grace of a duck."

"Hey, those are fightin' words, sweetheart. I'll show you graceful."

"He does turn a lovely pirouette." Esme walked in and sat down on the bed, laughing at
Emmett's mock outrage.

"Esme, chère, I thought that was just between us!"

"Such grace shouldn't be kept silent," she laughed. They kept poking fun at each other,
letting the atmosphere in the room lighten bit by bit. I watched Rose's face relax, and soon
she was smiling and teasing Emmett right along with Esme. I breathed a sigh of relief.

"So," Emmett said, turning to me. "Eddie's going to meet the parents today, eh?"

I nodded. "We're calling them tonight. I need to tell them that I'm staying in Paris, and I
haven't told them that we found Rose yet."

She smiled faintly and turned to look out the window.

"I'm sure they'll be relieved to hear it," Emmett said, watching Rose carefully. "Although
they might take the news about Paris a little hard."

I snorted. "A little hard? I'm sure we're in for one of my father's patented tirades.
Remember what he said when we told him we were going to college, Rose?"

"What do you need to go all the way to Seattle for that you can't find here in Forks?" Rose
said loudly. She lowered her voice and pushed her lips forward while twitching an
imaginary mustache. "In my day, we didn't need college. We worked for a living!"

The two of us broke into giggles, and Esme shook her head. "That's a man for you," she
sighed. "My father was just the same. Although our arguments had more to do with
independence in general and not education."

"Do you think you'll go back to Seattle, Rose?" Emmett asked. His face was serious for once,
his voice tentative.

"I don't know." She stopped laughing and sighed loudly. "School seems a little... silly after all
of this. Maybe Charlie was right. I still have Aunt Helen's house. I could always just go home.
I'm sure one of the boys at home wouldn't mind marrying a ruined woman." She said it
flippantly, but she couldn't hide the hurt in her eyes.

"Oh Rose," I whispered.

"Now that's just nonsense," Esme said briskly. "You could go home, of course, but then
what? From what you've told me, there's nothing left for you there but an empty house and
a handful of memories. What would make you happy? What do you want to do, child?"

"What do I want?" Rose said angrily. "What I want doesn't matter. He took what I want."

"Damn it, Rose. You don't believe that," Emmett responded with equal force. He stood up
and walked around to the front of her chair, forcing her to look at him. "You're better than
this. Stop letting him push you down. You got out. You lived. You beat him."
"What do you know?" she snapped. "Perfect Emmett, successful businessman, doting
mother, picture perfect life. You don't know what I've been through. So don't you tell me
what to do, because you have no idea."

"No, Rose, maybe you have no idea."

She looked up at him, tears sparkling in the corners of her eyes. "My parents died when I
was four. My aunt loved me, but she didn't know how to raise a child. And I just lost my
baby because the man who said he loved me beat me until I nearly died. What have you
possibly experienced in your life that you have the gall to tell me what I can and can't do?"

"When I was eight years old, my mother packed up all of our clothes in two suitcases and
put us on a bus to Ohio."

She stared at him.

"My father was a drunk, Rose." She opened her mouth to speak but he reached out and
touched her lips with a finger, stopping her. "No, I need to tell you this. We didn't have a lot
of money, and Pops didn't get work often. The Depression sucked all the jobs out of our
town in Tennessee, but his family had been there for decades, and he was a stubborn son of
a bitch. So we stayed.

"He was a mean drunk, and my mother just sat back and took it. She let him hit her, and
then when he passed out, she'd put him to bed and clean herself up. I used to get so angry
with her. I couldn't understand why she just didn't stand up to him."

"Why did you leave?" she asked.

"The old man only hit me once," he said. "Just once. Ma was cooking dinner, and he came
through the front door looking for a fight. He cuffed me on the side of the head and sent me
crashing into the old wooden curio cabinet we had in our front room. It fell over on top of
me. I wasn't too hurt, just a lot of bruises and a few cuts, but that was it for Ma. We left the
next day.

"She told me once I was older that she would have let him do anything he wanted to her as
long as she could keep me safe and happy. But the second he touched me we were gone.

"I didn't have a perfect childhood. Ma raised me on a teacher's salary. We told people my
father was dead. As far as I'm concerned, he is. My mother is a strong woman, Rosie, just
like you. She walked away. She told my father to take a flying leap and we started over. She
got her teacher's license while raising a pain in the ass kid, and she supported us with two
part-time jobs. So don't you sit there and tell me that he took everything from you. He
didn't. You can have anything you want. You just have to go after it."

"Em, I—"
"I don't want you to feel sorry for me," he said firmly. "That's not why I told you that story.
I'm fine. I worked my ass off to get here, and I have great friends. So do you, if you just open
your eyes and look around."

She blinked, and a tear trickled down her cheek. He wiped it off with the corner of his
sleeve and then sat back on his heels.

"Now, enough tears. What do you want, Rosie?"

"I want to go back to school," she whispered.

"I'm sorry, I didn't quite hear that. What did you say?"

"I want to go back to school," she said, a little louder.

"Come again?"

"I want to go back to school, and Royce King can take a long walk off a short pier!"

Esme laughed and clapped her hands. "Now you've got it! This calls for champagne!"

"In the middle of the day?" I teased.

"You should know, Bella, it's never too early for champagne. Emmett, come help me select a
bottle."

"Right behind you, beautiful."

After they left, the room was quiet. Rose didn't seem interested in talking, and I wasn't
going to push it. Instead, I walked over to the window and opened the sash, letting the cool
breeze in.

"Bella?"

"Yeah, Rose?"

"If I haven't said it... thank you."

We spent the afternoon celebrating Rose's decision. Alice and Jasper arrived some time
after Esme poured me a second glass of champagne, and we got progressively louder as
time went on. Alice was in the middle of telling a funny story about her childhood in New
York City when Edward poked his head in the door. He was alone.

"You're not getting drunk, are you?" he teased. "I'd hate to have to explain to Chief Swan
that his only child has turned into a lush."
"Trust me, he's not going to let you do much explaining," Rose laughed.

"Just the same," he said. "Are you about ready?"

"Bee in your bonnet?"

"Something like that."

I got up, ignoring the catcalls that Emmett and Jasper threw at us as we walked downstairs
to the kitchen, where Esme's phone was.

"Have you been out this whole time? Where's your father?"

"He's with Carlisle. We've been back a while, but I needed a little time to think about
things."

I grabbed his hand and pulled him to a stop. "Hey." He looked down at me and raised his
eyebrows. "It's just a phone call. If you were meeting him in person, he'd pull a shotgun on
you. The worst he can do this way is yell at you. We're separated by an ocean and a whole
continent. It's going to be okay."

"I know," he said slowly. "I just... I've never really...I don't know how to do this."

"Neither do I, so let's figure it out together."

"That sounds good to me."

It was a little after 10 a.m. for my parents, which gave them just enough time to have gotten
home from church and start cooking breakfast. I made the connection and tried to keep my
breathing steady. When my mother answered the phone, I exhaled loudly in relief.

"Hi, mom. It's Bella."

"Charlie! Bella's calling, get on the phone! You said you'd call every week," she scolded. I
was holding the phone between my ear and Edward's and he grinned at me.

"Things have been a little busy over here."

"Bella? Hello?" My father's voice suddenly echoed through the connection. Edward winced.

"Hello, Dad. How are you?"

"Don't give me that line, young lady. Where have you been? You haven't been answering
your phone. Did your number change? If it didn't take more than a month to get you, I'd
have sent Jacob after you by now."
"We've talked about this already," I sighed, rolling my eyes at Edward. "Jacob has no
business coming anywhere near me anymore. That's over."

"Well, we'll see," he said. "You'll be back soon, and the two of you never could stay apart too
long."

"Actually, um, that's why I was calling." Edward squeezed my hand and nodded
encouragingly. "The reason I haven't been in touch is that we found Rosalie."

My parents erupted into questions, talking over each other and pushing me for
information. I kept things as brief as I could, but there were certain details that I had to
share that I knew would catch their attention.

"So Rose and I have been staying with a friend of mine, and she's going to stay and go back
to school once she's well again. And I—"

"A friend, huh," my father interrupted. "What kind of a friend? What happened to that Alice
girl you were living with?"

"She's living with her boyfriend," I answered. "And we're staying with a good friend of mine
and her... her husband. He's a doctor, and he's been taking care of Rose." It wasn't exactly
true, but he didn't need every sordid detail.

"Hmm. And where are you staying?"

"In the attic garret. There's a sort of a loft up there. Rose has her own room on the second
floor. But the reason I'm calling—"

"Have you given any thought to when you'll be coming back?" my mother said, talking over
me again. I groaned internally. "You know, you could probably finish up your classes this
summer if you left now."

"I'm not coming home, Mom."

Silence. Then the inevitable—

"You damned well are coming home!"

"Dad, please just listen for a minute."

"No, you listen, young lady! Your mother and I have put up with this Paris charade for long
enough! Now you've found Rosalie—"

"And we're so glad she's alright, dear, please tell her we send our love," my mom
interrupted. Edward covered his mouth laughed.
"Yes, well," my dad continued, a little thrown by the interruption. "Now that you've found
her, you're getting yourself on a boat and coming home. I'll meet you in New York, and we'll
put this whole thing behind us once and for all."

"I've met someone," I blurted. Edward looked stricken, but I couldn't figure out how else to
raise the topic, and honestly, telling my father that I wanted to stay in Paris and be a writer
probably wasn't going to be much more convincing.

"What?" His voice was dangerously low.

"Is he French?" my mother asked, only sounding a little surprised.

"English, actually," Edward answered.

"Oh," she gasped.

"Mom, Dad, this is Edward."

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Swan," he said. It was a little surreal, standing there in
Esme's kitchen, introducing my boyfriend to my parents from 5,000 miles away.

"Edward what?" my father asked, still in that low, suspicious tone.

"Edward Cullen, sir."

"How old are you, exactly, Edward? And how did you meet my little girl?"

I felt my cheeks heat up at that comment, but Edward took it in stride. "I'll be 24 in June, sir.
And I met Bella when she was looking for Rosalie. She's actually staying with my aunt and
uncle right now."

"I see. And where do you live, Edward?"

He paused and stared at me, green eyes big as saucers. I shook my head frantically, but he
said it anyway. "With my aunt and uncle, sir."

"How many bedrooms do they have at that house?"

"Quite a few," Edward said vaguely. His face was beet red now, and I was worried he was
going to hyperventilate.

"Bella?"

"Yes, Dad?" My mother had gone silent, and I knew she'd left me to the wolves. There was
nothing she could do for me anymore.
"Are you living with this man?"

I gulped. "Well, technically, I suppose you could say that. But—"

"What do you do for a living, Edward?"

Oh no. There was no way he would be satisfied with Edward's answer. I tried to think of a
way, any way to spin his occupation as bohemian painter and jazz pianist, but no matter
which way I twisted it, it sounded the same. In other words, not good.

"I'm an artist, sir."

"An artist? What kind of an artist? No, Renee, I think I'm entitled to ask these questions of
the man my daughter is living with." His voice raised up a couple of notches, and I braced
myself. My mother had clearly tried to whisper something to him, to calm him down, but he
wasn't having any of it.

"I'm a painter and a musician," Edward said. The pink was fading from his cheeks a little,
and he looked oddly determined. "I paint during the day and sell my work. Most nights I
play jazz piano."

"Do you make much money at that?"

"Enough, sir."

"Enough for what? You freeload off of your uncle and aunt, spend your days sitting around
painting, and spend your nights seducing innocent young women?"

"DAD," I said, appalled. "You don't, you can't just..."

"No, Bella, I want to answer him," Edward said. I closed my eyes and held my breath. "I
know you're worried about your daughter, sir. I can only imagine what it's like to have your
child so far away. But Mr. Swan, I swear to you that all I want is for Bella to be safe and
happy. I may not make a lot of money, but I love your daughter with my whole heart."

"And you think that's enough? Love?"

"Yes, sir, I do. Respectfully, sir, your daughter is the smartest, most capable young woman
I've ever met. She's talented in her own right, and she's working very hard on her own
dreams. I will always support her, in everything she does, but I don't think she'll need my
financial support for much longer."

"Bella, what is he talking about?" my mother piped in. "Waitressing?"

"Thanks a lot," I mumbled to him. He smirked at me. "I've been doing some writing,
actually," I said louder. "I've met quite a few authors here, and some of them have agreed to
help me with my work. They say I've got promise." I was exaggerating again, but it seemed
called for.

"She's being modest," Edward interrupted. "She spoke to a woman who has been
extensively published for almost four hours last night. Marguerite is going to introduce her
to a publisher."

"That's not for certain, and anyway I'm just starting out."

My mother started to speak again, but my father talked over her. "I don't like it, Bella. Why
can't you come home and write in Seattle? Or better yet, Forks?"

"Because," I said loudly, "I love Paris, and I love Edward. I'm happy here. I don't want to go
back to Washington. I don't want to be a teacher. I don't want to marry Jacob."

"And are you going to marry Edward? This artist who basically admitted he's not able to
provide for you?"

"I don't know, Dad, maybe we'll just live in sin for years." The sarcastic comment flew from
my mouth before I could stop it. My mother gasped, and I thought Edward's eyes were going
to pop out of his head.

"Isabella Swan!"

"I'm sorry, that was disrespectful. But you have to understand that I've made my decision.
I'm staying here, with Edward. I hope you can understand. I love him very much, and I'm
happier here than I've ever been."

There was a long pause, and I could hear their muffled voices in the background. Edward
hugged me and I tried not to cry. I wanted them to be happy for me. I wanted them to be
polite to Edward and understanding of my choices. I wanted it so much my heart ached.

"Bella?" Surprisingly, it was my mother who spoke.

"I'm here."

"I'm proud of you. Give your father some time, he'll come around."

"Where did he go?"

"He's stomping around in the trees outside. I'm sure he's cutting kindling as we speak."

I laughed abruptly, making myself hiccup.

"Edward, dear? It was very nice to... meet you, I suppose. You be good to our girl,
understand?"
"Yes, Mrs. Swan, I will."

"Call me Renee, sweetheart. Mrs. Swan makes me feel old."

"Renee," he said with a smile.

"Take care of each other. And Bella Marie, you call home more often, I don't care where
you're living. I miss you." Her voice shook, and I could tell she was nearing tears.

"I promise."

"Oh! And tell Rosalie I've been taking care of Helen's house for her. She shouldn't hesitate
to call if she needs something. She's family."

"I'll tell her. Thanks, Mom. I love you."

"I love you too, Bella. Behave yourself. Be safe, and call us soon."

We said goodbye, and after the receiver clicked I continued to hold it to my ear. Edward
smiled, took it from me gently, and hung it up on the hook.

"That... could have gone worse," he said.

I shook my head, laughing through the tears that had sprung from my eyes. "I guess."

He kissed me, slowly and sweetly, not trying to take it further. It was a kiss for its own sake.
It felt perfect.

"We'll be okay."

I looked straight into his eyes and knew that he was right. We would make it through this
thing with my parents, and life would go on. It would be wonderful.

"I know."
***

Chapter 28

I stepped out of Esme's front door behind my father and took a deep breath, feeling the
weight of the world on my shoulders for the moment. I knew exactly what Bella was up to,
practically shoving me out the door with him. She wanted us to talk. She'd wanted us to talk
for ages. And now that Royce had been arrested, my father would probably be leaving soon.
In a few hours we needed to call Bella's parents and break the news that she was staying in
Paris with me. I had no idea how that would go or what kind of shape Bella would be in
afterwards. I might not get another moment alone with my father. The time was now.

I knew that. And in a way, I wanted to talk to him. We'd made a lot of progress in dealing
with each other while he was here, and he'd proven without a doubt that he was only here
to help, because he cared about me. He'd reached out, so now I needed to reach back. I
knew all of that, but it was still really hard. We just weren't that way. We'd never been that
way. Even when I still lived at home and things were at their worst, I don't recall ever just
talking to him about anything. Of course, that was probably part of the problem.

"Well," he said brightly, turning to smile at me, "it's your city, son. Where do you
recommend we walk?"

I shrugged awkwardly and rubbed the back of my neck. "Ah…let's head over to the river.
You should see the Seine."

He nodded his acquiescence and we started walking. It was late May now and one of the
best times of year in Paris. Warm and fragrant, flowers everywhere. I always loved this city,
but spring was incomparable. I got distracted for a moment imagining the whole summer
ahead of me, enjoying it with Bella.

"So I'll be heading back to London soon," my father said, pulling me back to the present.

I nodded, "I imagined as much. Listen, Dad, I can't thank you enough for all your help. It's
such a relief to know that bast…that man is done and can't hurt another girl the way he hurt
Rose. And she's so much better already."

He nodded thoughtfully. "She's a lovely girl. I'm glad she's setting herself to rights. She
shouldn't let him ruin her life."

"I don't imagine Bella will allow that," I chuckled.

"No, I think you're right about that."

He paused for a while, as if he wanted to say something, but wasn't sure how. I was more
than happy to wait him out if it meant that he'd go first. "Bella is a lovely girl as well. You're
a lucky man to have met her."

"I'm glad you think so. I know you never approved of Kate." There. I said it. It was out there.

My father inhaled heavily and it almost looked as if he flinched. "Look, Edward, I regret
some of the things I said about Kate. You're right, for a long time we didn't think she was
right for you. We thought you were too young to be so serious about a girl. But we should
have respected your feelings. I see that now."
I glanced out absently across the water and shoved my hands in my pockets. Time to give
back. "I've had a lot of time to think about it since…since it all happened. And I'm older. I'll
never really know how it might have worked out between us, but in some ways, I think you
were right. We were too young. And part of it was me being pig-headed and stupid. I think I
hung on to her so tightly because you wanted me to let her go."

He didn't say anything right away, he just nodded, also looking out across the river.

"I'll always regret fighting you so hard about bringing her to Devonshire. If I'd listened to
you, that girl might be alive…"

I held up my hand to stop him and shook my head, "We'll never know what would have
happened or what wouldn't have happened. Trying to guess will just make us crazy. I've
moved on and let her go. It's alright."

He smiled at me, his own hands stuffed into his pockets. "When did you get to be so wise?"

I smirked. "Five years is a long time. And I haven't exactly been sitting around on my duff
here in Paris." I shrugged then. "Alright, so I've been mostly sitting around on my duff. But
sitting around gives you a lot of time to think. And grow up a little."

"I see that."

We walked on for a bit in silence, both clearly mulling over all we'd just said. He was sorry
about Kate. I'd have guessed as much, but hearing him say it was good. And surprisingly
freeing. I felt like I'd been ready to let go of her and all of that old pain and anger for a long
time now, I just needed my father to help me nudge it loose. Already Kate was feeling more
like a memory that I could visit now and then, and less like an open wound that still needed
tending.

"Can I ask you something?" I finally said at length, mostly just to break up the silence.

"Of course, Edward."

"You and Carlisle. And the war. Why do I get the feeling there's a story there? I thought you
were just the neighborhood air raid warden."

He smirked, an expression that I suddenly thought made him look a lot like me. I'm going to
look just like him when I'm older, I realized with a start.

"Hmmm," he murmured. "Where to start? Well, you know of course, that Carlisle and Esme
met during the war."

"Yes, working for the Resistance."

"Well, it was a bit more dramatic than that. She was a spy."
I practically choked on my laughter. "Pardon? Esme? A spy?"

He chuckled a little in return. "Yes, and quite a good one. She entertained the Nazis and in
turn, shared everything she heard with Carlisle, who was her contact."

"How did you figure in?"

"I was his contact."

I just stared at him for a minute. "But you were in England."

"Precisely. He needed to get Esme's information out of France and into Allied hands. I did
that part."

"But…" I sputtered for a second, trying to figure out which of the dozens of questions
crowding my head I wanted to ask first. I settled for the simplest one. "How?"

"Well, Carlisle had been travelling in Europe for some time by the time the war started.
He'd gone to medical school in Italy but when the fascists took power, he left. He spent
some time in Spain and in the Netherlands before he finally landed in France. He was
already involved in some political groups; he had been since he'd lived in Italy. He knew the
situation in France was getting precarious. I urged him to come home, but he felt he wanted
to stay and help. He had friends that were involved with the Resistance in its early stages
and he felt he could be useful. Communication would be a problem, we knew that. So while
we still could, we worked out a code. Our father had the land…you remember Grandfather
Cullen's estate?"

I nodded, encouraging him to go on.

"It was always our father's plan for Carlisle and I to manage it together. His travels made
that impossible. But it did provide us with the cover we needed to pass information. It was
all about the estate, about how certain fields should be cultivated, which crops were to be
planted. Quite clever, really. So Carlisle wrote letters home all full of advice about the
estate, but really it was full of secret information on the Nazis that Esme had gathered, all in
code."

"So, what…you just passed it on to the army or something?"

"Ah." My father smiled, rubbing the back of his neck, just like I did when I was nervous. "It
all got more complicated than that. I was rather involved with the Free French Army, those
on the outside looking to assist France. It started with passing on Carlisle's information,
which I did all throughout the war. But I did other things as well. I helped plan strategic
sabotage, trained Jed teams, that sort of thing. That's how I met Garrett. I trained him and
his partner prior to their drop into the Occupied Zone."
He said it so off-handedly, as if he was describing a part-time job he'd once held.

"You planned sabotage??"

He nodded.

"What did Mother think of all this?"

He gave me an appraising look out of the corner of his eye. "I think you can guess what your
mother thought of it. She wanted nothing more than for Carlisle to come home when the
war broke out. She wanted him to settle down and help me run our father's estate. Instead,
he stayed in France. He worked as a spy, and he got me involved, too."

"That's why she's so angry at him. Him and Esme."

He nodded. "It's not her fault, Edward. She just wants those she loves to be close to her and
safe. You know that."

Oh, how well I did. After Kate died and I ran away to London, I remembered her sobbing
and begging me to come back home. And till I died I wouldn't forget the way she wept when
I told her I was leaving for Paris.

"She worried herself to pieces about him all through the war, but she understood that he
couldn't leave. But once the war was over and he told us he'd met this French woman and
was staying for good…"

"I see."

"Yes, your mother harbored a bit of ill will towards Esme for quite some time. That and she
feels like she stole her son."

"What? Esme had nothing to do with me leaving! She and Carlisle didn't even know I was
coming here until I showed up on their doorstep!"

"I know that, Edward," he said, holding up a hand to placate me. "But just think about how it
feels for your mother. You ran away and didn't call or write for five years. Esme stepped in
to care for you in the place of your own mother. It stands to reason she might resent her a
bit."

I closed my eyes and shook my head. "I'm sorry. I had my reasons when I left. I really did.
But I should have kept in touch. That was wrong of me. I think I was just trying to… I don't
know… punish you both or something. I'm sorry. I was such a prat."

"It doesn't matter now, Edward. Besides, I think I've acknowledged that there was blame on
both sides. But your mother does miss you. Rather desperately."
We walked along in silence for a bit as I felt progressively worse about myself. I'd made a
lot of mistakes with my parents. Granted, they had, too, but it didn't erase what I'd done.
Five years. I didn't know how I'd ever make up for that.

"Maybe I should move back." The words were out of my mouth before I even realized I was
thinking them.

"Move where, Edward?"

"England. Home. I know Mum misses me. Maybe I should just go home. Bella would come…"

"No, Edward."

"No? You don't want me to?"

"It's not that. We miss you. Your mother misses you terribly. And we'd love nothing more
than to see you in London again. But now that I've spent some time with you here, seen a bit
of your life here…no, this is your home. I see that. It's where you belong, both of you. You'd
be miserable back in London."

I smiled and shook my head a little. "I'm sure Mother would disagree with you if you asked
her."

He laughed softly, "She might at that. Which is why you won't tell her I said that."

I laughed out loud at that, and so did he. It was miraculous; my father and I were laughing at
something together. I looked out again across the river.

"That's where I met Bella," I said reflexively, pointing at the tip of the Île de la Cité. I
couldn't lay eyes on the little green spot of park without thinking of that night now. "Well,
we sort of met there. She might argue with me about that."

"I really do like her, Edward. She's a wonderful girl. And I like what she's done to you…how
you are with her. She seems to bring out the best in you."

I said nothing, I just ducked my head and smiled.

"Have you given any thought to the future?" he continued.

"Well, she's decided to stay here in Paris, which is fantastic. I wasn't really looking forward
to the idea of living in Washington."

My father was looking at me in mild horror and I realized that he probably had no idea that
I'd been planning on following Bella back to the States.

"She'd follow me to London if I asked her to. You know that, right? We're together, no
matter what."

He nodded in understanding. "I am glad she's decided to stay. Both for the selfish reason
that I'd hate to have you so far away, and also because she seems to fit here as well as you
do. The two of you seem at home in Paris."

I smiled. "Yes, she does fit here. I'm glad she's finally seen it for herself."

"And now that she's settling here? Do you think you two might get married?"

I sputtered and choked, trying to catch my breath. It was the last thing on earth I expected
him to ask at that moment. Although really, now that I thought about it, it wasn't at all a
ridiculous thing to wonder. Would we get married? Probably. Right? Eventually? Did I want
to marry Bella?

Yes.

Wow. Yes, I did. Well, maybe not tomorrow, or even next month, but yes. The rest of my life
with her…yes.

"Um…"

"I didn't mean to put you on the spot, Edward."

"No, it's not that. I honestly hadn't thought…I mean, yes, I want to marry her. But I
think….hmmm. I have a feeling she'd say no if I asked her."

My father's eyebrows pitched up sharply. "You think she doesn't want to marry you?"

"No, not exactly. She loves me. And I'm pretty sure she's in it forever. But she's…all of this,
Paris, me…it's not exactly the direction she was imagining for her life. But I think she likes
it…not doing the thing that everyone expected of her. And getting married…"

"People would be expecting her to."

"Exactly."

"Well, give her time. Let her just be herself for a while. All the rest will fall into place when
it's meant to."

"Sounds like a good plan."

"I know I said you shouldn't move back to London, but Edward, we'd love it if you'd bring
her for a visit. I know your mother will want to meet her when I've told her about Bella. Do
think about it."
"I will. I'd like that. I'll ask Bella."

"Wonderful." He beamed at me, and I couldn't help but smile back. We wandered a little
farther along the quai, soaking up the sunshine, commenting a bit on the things we passed
and the people along the way.

"Esme tells me you come down here to paint," he said conversationally.

"Most afternoons, yes."

"I'd love to see what you've been working on, Edward."

"The stuff I do here, that's just for tourists. To earn a few francs. I do have a few things I've
been working on that aren't bad, though. The one I was painting the night I met Bella is
coming along. Do you want to see it?"

"Absolutely."

"Well, let's head back to Esme's then."

We turned back towards Boulevard St. Germain and home.

~*~

"So it was a good talk, then?"

I'd just finished telling Bella all about my conversation with my father. Just like it had when
it actually happened, it left me feeling both tired and exhilarated. I slumped back a little in
my chair, watching people stream past our table outside the café where we were having
dinner.

"Yes, it was good. Very good. He wants us to come and visit soon, so you can meet my

mother. Is that something you'd want to do?"

Bella leaned across the table and put her hand over mine. "I'd love it. We'll go as soon as we
can make the arrangements."

I smiled and leaned over to refill her glass with wine.

"No, that's enough for me, Edward," Bella said, laying her hand across the top.

I smirked and pulled her hand away gently before re-filling her glass. I'll admit it; I was
trying to get my girlfriend drunk. Well, at least tipsy. But she deserved it. Hell, after
everything we'd been through, today and for the past several days, we both did.
First I survived that grueling, but ultimately positive conversation with my dad. It was a
long time coming and I'd been dreading it. But in the end it was right and by the time I got
finished showing him my paintings back at Esme's, it felt like we had a whole new
relationship. It felt good. Great, even. Not being mad at him anymore made me feel a
hundred pounds lighter.

I held on to that feeling for hours, right up until it was time to call Bella's parents. I knew it
needed to be done, but that didn't make me any less terrified. It didn't help that the whole
thing started off about as badly as it could go.

I knew Bella wanted to be cagey about our living arrangements, but somehow she got us
boxed into a corner and it all came out. Me and her, living together in sin up in the garret, as
she blurted out sarcastically. That went over with Police Chief Swan like a lead balloon.
Bella kept trying to tell me he'd be fine eventually, but I still wasn't convinced. I wouldn't
put it past him to send Bella's ex-boyfriend after her anyway, just the way he'd threatened.
Although hearing her father talk about Jacob and Bella, like they were some foregone
conclusion and that if she just came home, they'd be married in a heartbeat...just hearing
him say it, even knowing it wouldn't happen, made my blood boil. And I swear if that Jacob
bloke ever showed his face in Paris, I wouldn't answer for what happened to him.

In the end, although her father stormed off in a fury, her mother seemed to come around a
bit. She even sounded friendly to me by the end of the call. At least I felt like I had one
possible ally in this new relationship.

I was so relieved to have it behind us. Not just that phone call, although that was huge, but
all of it; Bella's parents, my dad, Royce and James, all now happily in the past, that I dragged
Bella out of the house to celebrate. We didn't go far, just to Café Brasant, right in the
neighborhood. But the food was good and the waiter brought us a generous carafe of the vin
du patron. The night was warm and mild and so we sat outside at a tiny table on the
sidewalk, side by side, watching the pedestrians stroll by as we leaned into each other and
stole kisses, and ate leisurely.

Bella kept trying to resist more wine, but somehow I kept managing to get her glass full and
she kept drinking it. She wasn't drunk, but I was pretty sure she was relaxed, smiling and
laughing as she picked at the last of her tarte tatin. I wanted to just relax along with her, but
a couple of things from the day just wouldn't leave me alone.

Living in sin.

I certainly didn't feel like what we were doing was wrong, and I was confident that Bella
didn't feel that way either. After all, I knew her well enough to know how principled she
was. She simply wouldn't do it if she felt like it was wrong. And what I said to my father's
earlier questions was true; I was pretty sure that if I asked Bella to marry me, she'd say no.
But should I try anyway? Was that the right thing to do? The honorable thing? Maybe it
would do some good in smoothing things over with her dad.
And who knows? Just because she was okay living with me didn't necessarily mean she was
content with things just as they were. Maybe she wanted to get married and I was too stupid
to see it. Maybe I was wrong in assuming she'd say no. I'd never know for sure if I didn't ask
her.

"Come on," I finally said, pulling her up out of her chair and leaving some bills on the table
for the check.

"Where are we going now?" she asked, all soft and smiles as she leaned into me. I smiled
back as I bent down to kiss her.

"Just take a walk with me."

She seemed happy to comply, wrapping her hands around my arm, leaning against me as
we wandered slowly towards the river. I didn't really decide where to go, but it seemed my
feet just led us there automatically. Because where else would we go? The Square du Vert-
Galant, where we began.

"Look where we are!" she said brightly when we got to the bottom of the stairs down from
the Pont Neuf.

"And for once it's not raining," I said.

"Well, the rain was handy for one thing," Bella said as we passed through the gate and down
the walkway to the tip of the park.

"What was that?"

"Keeping everybody else away so we'd have it all to ourselves," she murmured, her lips
right next to my ear.

"Oh?" I said, turning my head to smirk at her a little, "do you have plans that require
privacy?"

She tipped her head back and laughed before twirling away from me and leaning back on
the wrought iron fence. "If you come over here I'll show you."

There was no way I was refusing that invitation. I stopped in front of her and grasped the
fence on either side of her hips, leaning in till I was flush against her. "Here?"

"Mmm," she mumbled, tipping her head up and kissing the underside of my jaw. Her hands
came to rest on my waist and I tipped my face down to capture her lips. I kissed her long
and deep, tangling my tongue with hers until I heard her moan softly. I let go of the fence
and moved a hand to wrap around her ribcage, letting my thumb just brush the side of her
breast. She shifted her body in closer to mine in response. It all felt really good and I was in
danger of getting completely distracted and pulled under before I got around to doing what
I came here to do. I pulled my lips away from hers and she latched on to my neck instead.
Not helping.

"Ah…Bella?"

"Mm-hmm?" She was kissing along my jaw, towards my ear.

"Can we talk about something?"

"Now?"

"Yeah."

She stopped and looked at me. "Is everything okay, Edward?"

"Yes, fine. Everything is fine. I just…." Suddenly I was inexplicably, overwhelmingly nervous.
This was Bella. My Bella. I could say anything to her, I knew that. But this was really hard,
especially when she was still wrapped around me. I took a step back to give myself a little
space to breathe and clear my head.

"You seem upset. What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I said, rubbing the back of my neck. "Okay, so I've been thinking. Or wondering,
maybe. Well, it was something my father said, and then something your father said and
well…."

"Just say it, Edward."

"What would you think about…should we maybe…well…do you want to get married?"

Then she laughed.

She threw her head back and laughed.

"Bella?"

"Oh, Edward! Please don't let my father scare you like that!" she collapsed against my side,
still laughing as she tried to talk. "I know he sounds terrifying, but I promise he's not going
to show up in Paris with a shotgun and drag us to the nearest church!"

I laughed then, too, because the image was sort of funny. But I also needed her to
understand that I was really offering, if it was what she wanted.

"Ah…yeah, I know that. But forget your dad for a minute."

My words and my tone seemed to sober her instantly.

"Would you…is it something that you want?"

"To get married?" Her eyes were huge, her face full of shock.

"Well…um, yeah…If you wanted to."

"Oh."

"Is that an 'oh-yes' or an 'oh-no'?"

"Just…oh. Edward, I love you so much, you know that, right?"

She was pressing in tightly to my side with her palm against my cheek, trying to hold my
eyes with hers.

"Of course, Bella. And I love you."

"It's not…ugh, I don't know how to explain this. Leaving home, meeting you, moving here,
it's changed me in all of these unbelievable ways. I'm just starting to figure out that my life
has so many more opportunities than I ever imagined, and I guess I'm just…"

"You're not ready yet," I interrupted her.

She just looked at me intently for a moment. "No, I don't think I am."

I took a deep breath, the first one I felt like I'd been able to take in hours. "Okay."

"You don't seem upset," she said cautiously.

"I'm not, really. I guessed that's what you'd say."

She planted a hand on her hip. "Then why did you ask me?"

"I don't know. I wanted to do the right thing. And if there was a chance I was wrong and
maybe you did want to... well, then, that's what we'd do. You're changing your whole life to
be with me, Bella. I just wanted you to know that I was willing to do the same for you, if
that's what you wanted."

She smiled at me fondly and shook her head. "You're always so good to me," she murmured.

It was odd, but considering she'd just turned down my almost-proposal, I was feeling pretty
great. I knew what her answer would be. I doubted myself, I wondered if maybe I was
wrong, but in the end, I knew Bella. I knew she wouldn't want to get married yet. And
honestly, I wasn't exactly ready myself. Yet. That part was the only thing that was still
eating at me, the only reassurance I really wanted from her.
"But, getting married aside...Bella, I love you. And I don't know what you're thinking about
us and the future, but I'm kind of thinking about…well, forever."

I held my breath in preparation for her answer, but I shouldn't have worried. Her whole
face lit up and her eyes grew soft. She leaned in closer and tilted her face up to mine.

"I'm thinking about forever, too," she whispered.

My face practically split in two with my ridiculous grin. I wrapped my arms around her
waist and pulled her body up close to mine. "So marriage…."

"Someday," she supplied with a little nod. "But for now, isn't it enough to just live a happy
life with me?"

"For now," I smiled.

"Forever."

I leaned in and kissed her, pushing her back into the fence. She wrapped her arms around
my shoulders and stood on tiptoe to angle her body closer to mine. The kissing grew heated
and intense, my hands gripped her hips and dug in. I moved to her neck, kissing my way
down to the curve of her shoulder where the strap of her dress had shifted slightly.

"Bella?"

"Hmmm?" she murmured, her head thrown back and one of her hands tangled tightly in my
hair.

"There was something else you said to your parents that I wanted to talk about."

"What was that?"

I laid a row of open-mouthed kisses back up her neck, headed for her earlobe. She sighed
heavily and arched into me.

"The bit about living in sin?"

I felt her stiffen slightly in my arms, but before she could pull away from me I fastened my
teeth on her earlobe and nipped gently. She gasped.

"Yeah?"

"I think we should go home and explore the sin part a little further."
***
Chapter 29

I hadn't been to the train station since I arrived months ago, and the hustle around me
made me almost nostalgic.

"I can't believe you're leaving already," I said softly. "It seems like you just got here."

Edward gave me a curious sideways glance as he gave his father an awkward hug. He didn't
quite understand how it was that I had become so close so quickly with Ed, but he also
didn't seem to mind. Under the circumstances, I think he was almost relieved. After they
had finally talked last week, things got better. That constant cloud of uneasiness that we
had been living under since Ed arrived dissipated, and I started spending more time with
the two of them. I was constantly amused by how similar their mannerisms and inflections
were, despite having lived apart for five years. They had stopped being so careful with each
other, and although they still had a long way to go, they weren't strangers anymore.

"Well, I expect we'll see you in London soon," Ed said warmly. He hugged me and tugged on
the end of my hair, giving me a fond smile. "And you two don't need me hanging around,
always in the way. I'm sure you have better things to do than keep me company. Besides,"
he added, glancing up at Edward, "your mother will have my head if I don't get home soon."

"Tell mum I love her," Edward said immediately. He had been feeling increasingly guilty
about ignoring his mother's letters. It was one of the biggest reasons we were planning to
visit London in only two weeks.

"Tell her yourself, son. Call her." The two men exchanged a significant look. Edward sighed,
then nodded reluctantly.

"Have a safe journey."

Ed grabbed his case and jumped onto the train, which was billowing smoke now.

"And Dad?"

Ed glanced back, a half-smile on his lips that made him look exactly like his son.

"I... um... Take care of yourself."

Ed blinked rapidly, and for a moment it almost looked as if he was about to cry. Then, with a
brusque nod, he entered the car. Edward shoved his hands into his pockets and watched
quietly as the wheels began to chug down the track. We stayed on the platform until we
couldn't see the train anymore, then wordlessly turned to walk for home.
"Are you going to miss him?" I asked quietly.

He shrugged slightly and reached out for my hand. We walked a few more blocks in silence,
our hands swinging between us. Every few seconds he would squeeze tightly, the pressure
making my fingertips tingle a little.

"You're a lot alike you know," I said, trying to distract him from whatever it was he was
brooding about. Sometimes Edward spent too much time in his own head, and I could
almost see the wheels turning in his mind.

He cracked a smile and shook his head slightly.

"It's true!" I protested. "You're both stubborn, and both of you would do anything to protect
the people you love. The look on his face when he talks about your mother..." I smiled softly,
tangling our fingers together even tighter, "it reminds me of how you look at me."

"My parents have always been in love," he said. He brought our hands up to his mouth and
planted a kiss on the inside of my wrist. "I could probably count on two hands the number
of times I've seen them argue. I think most of those times were directly related to me."

"Yes, it must have been difficult to have such a willful, handsome son," I teased, giggling a
little when he reached his long arm around and poked my side.

He scoffed. "Well I can't imagine it was easy raising such a stubborn, gorgeous girl. Poor
Chief Swan." When I grinned and looked away from him, he grabbed my chin and kissed me
softly. "Our children don't stand a chance, do they?"

I was struck by the blindingly clear image of Edward and me, cradling a tiny baby with
messy brown hair and brilliant green eyes. It made my heart swell. Hadn't I just got done
telling Edward I wasn't ready for marriage? I knew that it was the right choice for me, but I
also knew that the image of Edward's baby in my arms made my insides swirl pleasantly.
My reaction made me pause, and I stopped walking unconsciously.

Before Paris, one of the things I had started to dread about graduating college and moving
home was the idea that I'd be expected to bring baby Blacks into the world as soon as
possible. It was something my mother talked about often, and my father would drop
occasional hints about. Jacob wanted a boy first, preferably two. Meanwhile, I watched as
the girls in my high school class started families, hauling around babies on their hips,
wiping runny noses, and looking generally haggard and worn down. While I wasn't opposed
to children, I didn't feel at all prepared to have my own, and the pressure I got from all
sides made me queasy.

Edward's baby though—a little part of the two of us, one tiny, perfect child—I wanted that. I
certainly didn't want it tomorrow, or next year, but just like marriage, I knew I wanted it
eventually. It didn't feel like an obligation. It was a hopeful little dream.
Mistaking the reason for my silence, Edward started stuttering out some sort of awkward
apology. "I mean, if we have children, you know, we don't have—"

"Shhhhh," I said softly. I pulled him to a stop and kissed him slowly, feeling his body relax as
I pulled him deeper into our kiss. "Someday," I whispered against his lips.

He smiled and nodded, resting his forehead against mine. I let myself enjoy the feel of his
skin, allowing the chatter of the street to fade into the background. Then he exhaled and
pulled back, and the moment passed. Without a word, we kept walking.

Esme and Rose were talking in the kitchen when we got in. Papers were strewn everywhere
and a map of the city dominated the kitchen table.

"Of course, I'd prefer you stay in the fourth arrondissement," Esme was saying, "but the fifth
and sixth are lovely too. Alice can tell you more about what's available in the sixth, though I
have a number of acquaintances in that area."

"Where's Emmett?" Edward asked. He ducked his head out into the hallway, checking the
main living area before glancing up the stairs.

"He has a job, Edward," Rose sighed, still poring over the map. She chewed on her lips
absently and traced a boulevard with her finger. "I know it seems like he's my full-time
babysitter, but occasionally he does do actual work."

Her casual, dismissive tone made me snort, and Edward looked down at me in surprise. I
walked over to the table and sat down, ignoring the slightly pouting, confused face he was
pointing my way. "What are you two up to?"

"Carlisle said I'll be able to get off my crutches in a few more weeks," Rose said, finally
looking up. "Esme is helping me look for my own apartment."

"Your own—are you planning on living alone?" My eyebrows pulled together and I frowned.
I didn't like the thought of Rose all by herself, especially after everything that had
happened.

"Yes, I am," she said firmly. The steely glint was back in her eyes. "I know you're probably
worried, but I think I need to do this, Bella. I need to take care of myself for awhile, and I
have the money. Esme is going to help me find someplace safe, and you and Alice won't be
far away."

"Alice is doing some apartment hunting of her own." I turned in my seat and looked up as
Alice walked into the kitchen, a bright smile on her face. "So this works out nicely. If we
play our cards right, we can be neighbors!"

"You're moving?" I asked, struggling to follow the conversation. "What about our—your
apartment on Rue Jacob? What about Jasper?"
"I've been thinking about moving out of that apartment for awhile," she shrugged. "And
Jasper's place isn't exactly the Ritz. It's fine short-term, but we need more space. I want a
place with more space for a studio, and with my new position at Vogue, paying for it won't
be a problem."

It was impossible to miss the glint her eyes as she uttered her last sentence. She was
practically beaming.

"New position? What do you mean?"

"You're talking to Vogue Paris's newest junior fashion editor!" she squealed, apparently
unable to contain her excitement any longer. "It means I'll be more hands-on in selecting
what goes into the magazine, which means more control and more direct interaction with
the designers!"

I jumped up and hugged her, laughing and she picked me up and spun me around. "Junior
editors also get more access to the closet," she whispered. "You, me, and Rose are going to
go shopping. We'll send you off to London in style."

She followed through with her threat, of course, although it was much less terrifying than
my first trip to the Vogue closet. Paul rushed at us, sweeping me into his arms as if we were
best friends.

"Ma belle!" he cried, pulling away and looking at me closely. "You look magnificent. And so
chic. Alice, where did your quaint little friend go?"

"She fell in love with an artist and went native, Paul," Alice laughed. He honed in on the "fell
in love" bit, and for the next several hours we caught up while Paul gave Rose a make-over.
Alice darted in and out of the salon with new finds: dresses, shoes, and hats. It was
exhausting; it was wonderful.

The next morning, Alice and Rose dragged Jasper, Edward, and I through apartment after
apartment. Alice was insistent that she wanted to live on the Left Bank—something about
the "atmosphere." Rose wasn't as specific about what she was looking for, but she
dismissed quite a few apartments after only a glance around.

"I'll know it when I see it," she said, ignoring Jasper's increasingly loud grumbles. Alice and
Jasper had narrowed their list down to three different apartments and had already set up
appointments to speak with the property managers. Rose hadn't found a single place she
wanted.

"What about you two?" Alice asked suddenly, almost dropping the sheaf of application
papers she held as she looked up at Edward and me.

"What about us?" Edward said with a shrug.

"You can't just stay in the garret with that mangy cat for forever," she said.

"Of course not," he said simply. "But we also don't have to move out immediately just
because everyone else is. Besides, Debussy abandoned us long ago. He much prefers
sleeping with Esme." He grinned at me and winked.

I could see she was about to argue, so I piped up. "We've talked about it, Alice, and it doesn't
make sense for us to move right now. Esme has plenty of space to go around, and she and
Carlisle are more than willing to let us stay in the garret for now. We don't have the
resources for a place of our own yet. Someday we will. For now, we're staying put."

"Are you sure? Because there's a unit in that building we just came from that would be just
perfect—"

"Alice, we're very sure," I laughed. "But you are welcome to come with us when we're ready
to look. Okay?"

"Now you've done it," Edward sighed quietly. Alice grinned and turned back to Jasper,
apparently appeased. "We would have been able to find a place without the Alice-
runaround, you know."

"Of course we would have," I laughed. "But she was going to insist on helping us anyway,
and this way I've gotten her to stop pestering us about it for a little while longer."

"Brilliant woman," he chuckled, brushing his lips against my forehead.

"Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Cullen," I murmured, leaning in to kiss him.

"Stop."

I looked up at the sound of Rose's terse command, startled. She was staring up at a window
with bright red sashes where a pretty, young woman was just hanging a vacancy sign. The
building was older, but still distinguished. Brightly colored flowers peeked over window
boxes.

"Excusez-moi, mademoiselle," Rose called up. She waved her arms to get the woman's
attention.

Half an hour later, Rose was the proud renter of a one-bedroom apartment. The young
woman was the daughter of the landlord, and after talking with the group of us, she agreed
to let the vacancy to Rose on the spot. The place suited Rose perfectly, and it was just one
floor up, so she wouldn't have to hobble up too many stairs while she was still on the mend.
She agreed to be ready to move on the first of the month, paid half her first month's rent in
cash, and then we were on our way back to Esme's for the evening.
The next two weeks passed in a flurry of packing, accompanied by occasional pangs of
nostalgia. I was strongly reminded of the first year Rose and I went off for college, bags
packed and loaded into the back of my father's police car. It was a grand adventure; we
were headed off in the great unknown.

The unknown was back again, and we were all of us meeting it head-on. Rose exchanged
her crutches for a sturdy, yet dainty looking cane. Alice tortured Jasper with endless
questions about furniture and paint while Esme, Rose and I helped pack her clothing and
sewing materials for the move.

Emmett left Esme's and returned to his old apartment, but he always found time to stop in
and chat, particularly when he knew Rose would be around. I frequently walked in to
Rose's bedroom or one of the parlors to find the two of them sitting close together,
speaking in low murmurs. They were almost always smiling—small, secret smiles that
seemed to be full of untold meaning. It gave me hope.

And Edward and I were getting ready to take a trip across the Channel, toward his past and
our future. By the time our departure date arrived, I was exhausted from packing and
preparing, and most of all from reassuring Edward that I wanted to go to London and that
everything would be alright. He was more anxious about the trip than I was.

The morning we left, our entire odd little family accompanied us to Gare du Nord. Esme and
Carlisle stood near the back of the group, and Jasper lingered near them. Despite
everything, at times Jasper still seemed like an outsider. Then Alice was grasping his hand
firmly and tugging him toward where Emmett and Rose stood. He followed, smiling gently
and shaking his head as she chattered away. Their conversation was lost in the dull roar of
the train's engine.

Edward whispered something in Emmett's ear, and the two of them exchanged a brief,
masculine embrace. When they parted, Emmett's face was lit with a wide grin. He winked at
me and ducked down to hug me.

"Take care of him, Bella," he said in my ear. "And if those Brits give you any trouble, you
give 'em Hell for me."

I laughed and promised I would before turning to say goodbye to Rose. Up and down the
train, conductors were shouting out instructions. Passengers were jumping on board, and
the rumble of the engine got louder. Edward squeezed my hand. There wasn't much time.

I looked up at my friend, and my words got caught in my throat. She wasn't the same
woman who had left Seattle for a Parisian adventure, but neither was she the frail and
broken creature we rescued from Royce. She seemed to glow; her hair and skin were
healthy, and her eyes were bright. She smiled more now than she had in the last several
years, and I didn't know whether to credit her new-found independence or Emmett.
Whatever the reason, I was truly proud of the woman who stood before me.
I reached out and pulled her into my arms, crushing her crisply pressed blouse and
probably smudging the make-up Alice had insisted I wear this morning.

"Don't cry," she whispered. "I'll see you soon."

"I know," I sighed, pulling back and smiling. "We'll only be gone for a few weeks."

"And when you come back, you'll come visit my new apartment," she said firmly, beaming.
"Emmett and Jasper have both promised to help me with the heavy lifting. Well," she
laughed, "Emmett promised and Jasper was strong-armed into it by Alice. Either way, I
expect to be throwing my very first dinner party in honor of your homecoming."

She said the words with teasing formality, and I couldn't help but hug her again. Edward
pulled on my arm.

"Darling, I'm sorry but we really have to board now or we'll miss the train and we'll have to
do this all over again tomorrow."

I sighed and let go of Rose, turning to Alice for one last hug. She'd been helping me prepare
for this trip all along, reassuring me every time I felt overwhelmed. I regretted that I
couldn't bring her along, and when I looked at her, I think she saw some of that regret in my
eyes.

"Knock 'em dead, kid," she said cheerily. She hugged me lightly and then, before she
stepped away, she added softly, "She'll love you. It's impossible not to."

I nodded, unable to respond fully so close to Edward. Even he didn't know how much
meeting Mrs. Cullen really worried me. Alice was the only person I had confided in in that
regard. Edward had put Kate to rest, but had she? Would she dislike me for being too young,
or too poor, or too... American? My one comfort was that Ed had liked me very much, and
Alice had worked tirelessly over the last two weeks to calm me down and bolster my
spirits.

I kissed her cheek and jumped up onto the train, allowing Edward to steady my elbow as I
mounted the tiny steps into the car. We found our seats quickly, keeping our crowd of well-
wishers in sight through the slightly-grimy windows. As the train started to move, I thought
I saw Emmett slip his hand into Rose's. The next moment, they were surrounded by smoke,
and we pulled away from the platform.

"Did you—?" I started, staring through the window as if I could clear the smoke with my
mind. "Did you see that?"

"See what?" Edward said absently. His eyes were closed, and he was leaning comfortably
back into his seat, letting his fingers drift over my knee.

"I think," I said slowly, "that Emmett and Rose were holding hands just now."
He opened one eye and gave me a sheepish little half-smile. "I suppose that's more than
possible."

"They've been spending a lot of time together lately," I mused. "One evening I came home
from the café and I could have sworn that they were about to kiss. I was convinced I was
seeing things. Has he said anything to you?"

The sheepish smile grew, and he looked away.

"Edward Cullen, what do you know?"

"He...he may have mentioned it to me, a few times."

I turned in my seat, surprised. "When? What did he say? Why didn't you tell me?"

He sighed a little, then opened both his eyes and seemed to resign himself to the
conversation. "The first time was right before my father went home. And I didn't tell you
because he asked me not to. This is a delicate situation, and I thought Em had a right to
handle it in his own way."

I frowned. "What did he say exactly? Why wouldn't he want me to know?"

Edward smiled again. "Probably because he knew your immediate reaction would be to
interrogate him. You're very protective of her, love." He reached for my cheek and I sighed
a little. "He didn't say much at first. He wanted to know if I thought it was... appropriate for
him to express his interest, given what she's been through."

"What exactly is his interest?"

"I think..." He paused, as if he was deciding whether or not to tell me something. Then he
shrugged. "I think he loves her."

My jaw dropped. "Did he tell you that?"

"Not in so many words. But the way he talks about her, looks at her... it's pretty obvious. I'm
surprised you haven't been more suspicious."

I stared out the window quietly, absorbing this information. Edward's warm hand suddenly
engulfed my cold one. "Would it be so bad?" he said softly. "He's a good man, Bella, one of
the best. He'd be good for her."

I smiled a little, and my eyes tingled uncomfortably as a tear trickled down my cheek.
"They'll be good for each other," I agreed.

We passed the rest of the long journey in quiet conversation, discussing our friends and
what we would do when we arrived in London. I wanted to see the places Edward had spent
his time as a child, and he smiled and rolled his eyes every time I brought up some kind of
predictable tourist-like activity; although I did get him to promise to take me to see Big Ben
and Westminster Abbey. He talked about his parents, more specifically his mother. The
little knot of anxiety in my stomach tightened and then relaxed as he let himself remember
her. His happy memories painted a different picture than his tortured adolescence. He
loved his mother very much, and I felt my dread start to slip away.

When we stepped off our boat onto the crowded pier, it only took a moment to spot the
Cullens. Ed was easy to find—he was taller than most of the people around him, impeccably
dressed, and glancing anxiously toward the gangplank. I could tell the second he recognized
us. He bent down to the petite woman at his side, extending one long arm in our direction.

I caught a flash of familiar bronze hair as she pushed through the crowd, shoving passers-
by out of her way as she went. Then she was in front of us, her eyes locked hungrily on
Edward's face. He smiled cautiously.

"Edward Anthony Cullen," she said loudly, more accusation than statement. She looked
formidable; her hair was pulled back in a severe knot and her green eyes—her son's eyes—
were narrowed slightly.

"Hello, Mum."

At his words, all her ferocity dissolved. "Edward," she said again, and this time her voice
wavered. She hugged him, pulling him down so he was half-bent over and hanging onto his
neck for dear life. I stood behind Edward quietly, not wanting to interrupt, and not feeling
quite comfortable inserting myself into their reunion.

It didn't take her long to notice me, though. She let go of Edward and wiped her eyes,
smiling shakily. Then she turned expectantly to me, and her smile grew. With a short bound
that almost reminded me of Alice, she was in front of me.

"And you must be Bella Swan," she said warmly. "Ed told me so much about you, dear."

"All good things I hope," I laughed, feeling my nerves surge at the knowing way she was
looking at me. The next second I let out a surprised little squeak as she pounced on me,
hugging me as tightly as if she were my own mother.

"Of course," she said with a squeeze. Then, in an almost-whisper, she added, "Thank you for
bringing my son home." When she let me go, her eyes were glistening again. "I'm just so
happy to meet you, Bella. To have both of you here to visit."

"Come, Elizabeth, there'll be plenty of time to talk once they've washed the trip off," Ed said.
He hoisted my suitcase up, and Edward picked up the other case. Elizabeth hooked her arm
around his free arm and started pulling him through the crowd, and Ed escorted me back to
where their car was waiting. As he loaded our luggage into the back of the car, Edward
looked down at me with a wary sort of smile.

"Are you ready?" he asked, holding open the door to the back seat with a smile.

"As I'll ever be."

***

Chapter 30

June 3, 1955
Bowling Green, Ohio

Dear Bella,

I hope this reaches you before Edward's birthday. Emmett wanted to be at Edward's
opening so badly, but with the children so young it's really impossible. Once Helen is
older, we'll bring her and Imogene to visit their Aunt Bella. Genie loves the picture
books you sent for her last birthday, by the way. Her newest plan is to live at the top of
the Eiffel Tower and eat nothing but chocolate and crêpes every day. Originally, she
wanted pancakes, but I told her crêpes would be more French. We even made them for
breakfast the other day. She was particularly happy about the whipped cream Emmett
put on top of the crêpes. He spoils her so much.

Emmett's mother says she's exactly like he was as a child, all unruly brown curls and
crazy smiles. And such an imagination, Bella! Her stories could give you a run for your
money, although you'd probably have to work to understand her. Between her little
lisp and the words that she invents from thin air, sometimes it's a challenge.

Speaking of stories, I can't tell you how much I enjoyed your book. Thank you for
sending the signed copy, it's sitting in a place of honor on our coffee table. I had to read
it slowly— I'll confess that between my students, my husband, and my children I rarely
get a moment to myself. In the end, I was glad I did it that way... both because of the
memories it made me relive and the way it made me feel closer to you and wonderful
Paris. Now whenever I miss you I open your book and flip through the pages. I haven't
seen you in too long. Any chance we can convince you to visit Ohio?

I've enclosed a photo of the whole family (little Helen's first family portrait!) and our
present to Edward.

All my love,

Rose
 p.s.: Emmett says to tell Edward to drink the scotch slowly—now that he's such an old
man, his hangovers will be much worse. I told him he should be careful who he's calling
old, as he's two years older than Edward.

BPOV

I stared at the little family portrait, taking in the subtle changes that time had wrought on
Emmett and Rose. Rose's long hair had been cut off at her chin in a charming little bob after
their first child, Genie, was born. She said she couldn't be bothered trying to keep it up
anymore, and short hair was becoming fashionable anyway. They both looked a little more
careworn, and there were lines around Emmett's eyes and mouth that hadn't been there
when they left Paris four years ago.

Edward and I had returned from our visit to London to find Emmett and Rose very
obviously in love. Their interactions were full of teasing little comments and soft touches.
She still gave him hell for trying to carry her everywhere, and he still insisted she was too
stubborn for her own good. But even though the words hadn't changed, the attitude behind
them had.

Rose went back to school, just like she had planned, finishing her degree with flying colors.
Emmett proposed right before her graduation, and Esme outdid herself with the biggest
party she'd thrown since before the war. Edward, Emmett, Jasper and Carlisle were walking
around with icepacks on their foreheads for a full day afterwards, and Edward couldn't
even look at a bottle of champagne for months.

It was shortly after that night that we got news from Edward's father that Royce King, who
had been put in prison for various charges of blackmail, war profiteering, and a couple
particularly ugly charges involving conspiracy to commit murder, had been killed by a
fellow inmate in Pentonville prison. Apparently he had been up to his old tricks, supplying
contraband to the prisoners for a price, when he cheated the wrong guy. When we told
Rose, she made an odd little whimper –part anger, part relief, and part sadness—before
straightening up and nodded.

"Well," she said slowly, smiling up at Emmett. "That's one less thing on my to-do list, isn't
it?"

Emmett just laughed and pulled her into a tight hug, kissing her hair. "That's my girl," he
said fondly, shaking his head a little and looking at her in slight disbelief.

I didn't get to see Rose marry Emmett. His company called him home to Ohio, and they left
in June to start their lives together. They had a little civil ceremony in Bowling Green with
his mother and my parents, who made the trip to see their surrogate daughter get married.
My mother made it a point to tell me how happy she was that Rose was happily married. I
didn't miss the wistfulness in her voice when she told me what a beautiful bride Rose made.

When the topic came up now, I sidestepped it with practiced ease. It was a bit of a sore
subject for several people in my life... including my boyfriend.

Edward walked out into our tiny living room, his suspenders hanging loosing around his
waist. I looked up from Rose's letter and felt my heart flutter a little at the sight of him.
There was something about Edward in formalwear that made me feel like I was seeing him
for the first time. Tonight he was wearing crisply pressed black slacks, shiny black shoes,
and a fresh white dress shirt. A tie hung loosely from his neck, and he frowned as he tugged
on the ends.

"Do you need help?" I laughed. He looked up and sighed heavily.

"Please? I don't see why I have to wear a tie. I'm not going to be fooling anyone."

I stood up and started looping his tie into a simple knot. "Because you're the artist of honor,
that's why. It won't kill your reputation if you wear a tie for one night. It's your first gallery
opening."

He sighed again, so I tugged on his tie and pushed my mouth up by his ear. "Plus, the tie is
kind of sexy."

I was rewarded with a light chuckle. Edward grabbed my left hand and brought it up to his
mouth, kissing my palm lightly before flipping it over and letting his lips linger on my third
finger. Then it was my turn to sigh.

"You look very handsome," I said quietly, straightening the knot and letting his tie drop. "I
need to get changed and then we'll head over to the gallery. Esme said she was planning on
getting there early with the champagne."

Slipping around him, I headed into the bedroom and closed the door softly behind me. We'd
moved into this flat about three years ago, when Edward had started making a small but
steady income from his paintings. I was able to sell a few short stories to supplement our
income, and back then I was still working at the café almost every day. We made enough to
get by, and our tiny apartment was cozy and just right for two, although at the beginning I
missed the constant company of Esme's place.

I made my way over to the wardrobe, where a picture of Edward and me sat smiling into the
room. It was taken that first August on a sunny, perfect summer day. Jasper had unearthed
a 35mm camera and we had taken turns playing around with it. Alice snapped that picture
and declared it "perfect" before ever getting the film developed. As usual, she was right.

The very next day, our world got turned upside down. Jacob appeared in the street outside
of Esme's house looking ragged and exhausted and slightly terrified. Esme, not knowing
who he was or why he was looking for me, made him wait on the front steps until she found
me.

Edward was painting on the Seine, so I brought him inside and got him a hot cup of coffee.
He watched me as I bustled around the kitchen, eyes getting sadder by the second. He was a
little more shaggy than the Jacob I remembered—his hair had grown out of his careful crew
cut and his clothes were dirty, probably from his trip.

When I had his coffee, I sat down across from him with a sigh. "Now," I started, then
stopped, unsure of what to say. "Jacob...what are you doing here?"

"I'm here to get you back," he said forcefully. He didn't touch his coffee.

"Jacob—"

"No, Bells, I'm serious. What are you doing here? This place... it's not you. There are so many
people, the streets are dirty, no one speaks English...and what are you wearing?"

I looked down at myself, surprised by the accusation in his voice. It was a dress that Alice
had brought me from work, a simple silk thing with a full skirt that I liked a lot. It was one
of Edward's favorites. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

"It's not you," he said again, waving his hands at me. "You're not some fancy, snooty city
girl."

I rolled my eyes. "Did my dad send you here? I told him, and you, for that matter, that I'm
staying here. I met someone else, Jake. I'm in love with him. I love Paris. It's not dirty or
crowded. And I'm actually getting quite good at speaking French."

"Charlie didn't send me; I just couldn't stand to see you throw your life away like this."

That's when Edward walked in. It only took a moment for them to recognize each other for
who they were—I had described Jacob to Edward, and Jake didn't miss the way Edward
walked right to me for a kiss hello. Somehow I managed to keep them from killing each
other right there in Esme's kitchen, but it was a close call. I was standing in between them
with my hands extended by the time Esme arrived to take control of the situation.

In the end, Jake only stayed for two weeks. Esme set him up in Emmett's old room, and I
convinced my friends to take turns babysitting him while I was at work. Babysitting was the
right word, too. He was never quite comfortable. He didn't like the food, the coffee was too
strong, the streets were too wide, the river was too narrow.

Edward tolerated his presence with quickly evaporating patience. They scowled at each
other every morning at breakfast, and Edward became more territorial every day. If he
wasn't touching me, he was kissing my neck or playing with my hair.

In the end, though, Edward wasn't what convinced Jacob to leave. I was at the café that
afternoon, scribbling away in my notebook and waiting on the few regular customers who
hadn't abandoned the city for the month of August. It was a beautiful, sunny day, although
the breeze coming in from the west felt like rain. I was untying my apron at the end of my
shift when I saw Jacob sit down at one of my tables. He had his suitcase with him.

"Jake? What are you doing here?"

He looked up at me with a sad little smile. "Sit down."

I pulled out the chair across from him and sat slowly, still staring at his suitcase.

"I'm going home, Bella. You were right. You belong here, and I don't. You... you belong with
him now."

My eyebrows pulled together and I gaped at him for a moment. We had fought the night
before, again, because he thought Edward was a bad influence on me. He was lucky that
Edward was at the club and Esme and Carlisle were out, or things could have gotten out of
hand very quickly.

"What brought this on? Not that it's not nice to hear."

"I've been sitting across the street all afternoon," he said quietly, "watching you. I haven't
been able to really watch you in your life here, you know? I know that's my fault, but... I
didn't want to believe it."

"Believe what?"

"That you're happy. That you want this." He laughed, but it was a bitter sound. "You must
think I'm an idiot."

I covered his hand with mine and sighed. "Oh, Jake. You're not an idiot. This has nothing to
do with you. We just weren't right for each other. You'll find someone who'll make you so
much happier. Just wait."

I walked him to the train station and kissed him goodbye, one last time. Edward was
overjoyed to come home to a Jacob-free house, and even happier when I told him what he
had said before leaving.

Jake was married a year later to a pretty red-headed girl he called Nessie. They sent me a
wedding announcement, complete with a picture of the happy couple. Jake had signed it
with a little note.

–You were right. Thank you.

It seemed like everyone we knew was getting married and having children. Everyone but
Edward and me, that is.

I pinned my hair up and examined my face in the mirror. I was twenty-seven, and there was
no denying that I looked different than the fresh-faced and terrified girl who stepped off the
Paris metro in 1950. Edward was about to turn twenty-nine, and for some reason he had
been increasingly fixated on his age. It was almost like he felt a timer had started running
somewhere, like he had things he had to accomplish before he turned thirty and he only
just realized what a short amount of time he really had.

I slid my rings on, laughing a little as I realized how much more like Esme I became every
day. My third finger on my left hand I left empty, sighing a little as I stared at my hands.

Edward had asked me to marry him exactly twenty times since that first almost-proposal
on the Île de la Cité. He asked me over dinner, at the market, and one memorable Bastille
Day under the fireworks near the Eiffel Tower. Some of his proposals seemed carefully
planned, while other times were more spur of the moment. He dropped to his knees on the
metro once and asked me cheerfully.

I told him no every time.

It wasn't that I didn't want to marry him. I did...eventually. We had been living together for
almost five years. We had a life together. Everything we owned, we owned together.

At first, I decided I wanted to make a name for myself. Publish my first book. Then I could
be a wife. I told him as much, and for a while after that his proposals took on a teasing,
laughing edge. Like he knew I would say no, but just wanted me to know that he would
marry me whenever I wanted.

My book was published last year, and since then I had sensed an increasing frustration
behind some of our interactions. Meanwhile, I clung to my unconventionality. Marriage still
seemed like a cage, and I wanted to remain free and independent for as long as I could. I
didn't need a wedding license to tell me I belonged to Edward. I didn't need a chapel or a
white dress. But it was slowly beginning to dawn on me that maybe Edward did need those
things.

I opened our bedroom door and poked my head out into the apartment. "Edward, do you
know where my stockings went? They were right next to the bed, and I can't find them."

"I was doing some washing earlier and grabbed them. They're drying on the bathtub."

In the bathroom, I found my stockings exactly where he said they'd be. I was about to put
them on when the complete banality of the moment struck me, and I started to laugh.

Edward had washed my delicates, without being asked or pestering me about how to do it. I
cooked him dinner every night. We had silly arguments over curtains and bedclothes and
how he never picked his clothes up at night. We spent every evening together, and most
days we worked side-by-side, him painting while I wrote.

The independence that I clung to was a myth. I was no more a single woman than Rose was,
except Rose had a wedding band and two children. And just like that, standing in the middle
of my tiny bathroom staring at my equally-tiny bathtub, I knew that I was ready. It wasn't a
blinding revelation; it was more like wrapping myself in a warm blanket. The next time he
asked, I would say yes.

He walked into the bathroom then, staring at me like he was wondering if I had finally lost
it. I couldn't blame him—I was laughing hysterically in the bathroom, hugging my stockings
to my chest, tears leaking out of the corners of my eyes.

"Everything alright, love? I didn't put a run in your hose, did I?"

The question made me laugh even harder, and I started to hiccup. He thumped me on the
back helpfully, and after I caught my breath, I smiled up at him.

"No runs. I'm wonderful. Would you get my wrap from the closet? I'm almost ready."

He gave me one more slightly wary glance, then nodded and walked back toward our
bedroom. I pulled on my stockings and checked my makeup in the mirror. My eyes were
bright and my mouth was stretched into a happy grin.

"Mrs. Bella Cullen," I whispered, trying the name out on my tongue. The girl in the mirror
seemed to approve; her smile grew and I swear she winked at me.

"Okay, Edward," I called out, making my way toward the front door. "I'm ready."

EPOV

I scowled at my reflection in the spotted little mirror over the dresser and yanked my tie
loose again. Stupid, bloody thing. The whole point of being a vagabond painter for a living
was to avoid spending your life strangled by a necktie. I wasn't sure why I needed to
celebrate finally achieving some small modicum of success as a painter by strangling myself
with one of those very same neckties. But Bella had been very clear about what was
expected of me tonight, and Alice would brook no arguments about my outfit, so I was
trying to suppress the grumbling and get myself dressed. The bloody necktie was defeating
me, though.

As I took a deep breath and centered it around my collar again, my eyes fell to the side-by-
side framed snapshots on our dresser; Bella's parents in one, my parents in the other. My
relationship with my parents had steadily improved ever since my dad came to help with
Rose all those years ago. Bella never gave it a moment to backslide, working right from the
start at building a relationship with my mother. It wasn't hard; my mother adored Bella.
She would have adored her no matter what, since it was Bella who finally managed to get
me back home to England and speaking to my parents again. But ever since that first visit,
Bella and my mother had established a steady correspondence, exchanging letters every
few weeks. About twice a year my parents came to Paris to visit and Bella and I usually
managed to make it back to London at least once a year.

It was great having them back in my life, and even better that they were so accepting now of
my choice to live in Paris. I think they actually really enjoyed their visits. Esme always
insisted that they stay with her and Carlisle, even after Bella and I had moved out. Every
morning I'd find my parents bleary-eyed and exhausted, but happy, so I suspected Esme
and Carlisle kept them up half the night drinking and reminiscing. I didn't mind. I loved
seeing them grow close, the years of silence nearly forgotten.

The closeness we'd established with my parents made me feel even guiltier about Bella's
parents. We'd been together for five years and still hadn't made it to America to meet them.
Renee insisted that they understood how very expensive the trip was and how long it took
to get there. Even Charlie managed to keep his grousing about Bella's prolonged absence in
control, only occasionally accusing me of kidnapping his daughter. I ignored his ribbing but
I still felt terrible about Bella's long absence. Now Bella was the one who hadn't seen her
parents in five years. We were saving for the trip, and if all went well with her next book,
we were hoping to make it for Christmas this year.

Which brought me back to the other thing making me feel guilty. Bella might be having fun
thumbing her nose at convention by staying single for so long, but I couldn't shake feeling
that it would be wrong somehow to go home to meet her family while we were still "living
in sin," as she had put it so succinctly so long ago.

I didn't begrudge her choice for one second. I never had. I really hadn't minded when she
refused my first proposal. I fully understood why she didn't want to get married, and I
hadn't been quite ready myself. And I never harbored any ill will for any of her subsequent
refusals. In fact, her turning me down had become kind of "our thing." I liked to think up the
strangest, most unexpected places to propose, choose the moment when she'd be least
expecting it. Then I'd drop to one knee in front of a stunned, breathless crowd and ask her
to marry me, smirking, because I knew full well what her answer would be. She'd roll her
eyes and say no, the crowd around us would audibly deflate in disappointment, and the two
of us would laugh about it for the rest of the night. It was all good fun. Except I wasn't quite
feeling the humor anymore.

Everybody else was married already! First Rose and Emmett, which was hardly surprising.
Then Alice and Jasper tied the knot a couple of years ago, which raised a few eyebrows at
first, but in the end seemed exactly right. And then six months ago even Esme and Carlisle
had done it. When Carlisle turned fifty, he suddenly got it in his head that he wanted to
marry Esme. She'd laughed and rolled her eyes at him, but when she realized he was
serious, and that it meant a lot to him, she'd made the initial inquiries to obtain an
annulment of her first marriage. They'd quickly discovered that her husband had died two
years earlier and she was free. They were quietly married in a small side chapel of Saint
Germain l'auxerrois in January.

Now, with my twenty-ninth birthday bearing down on me, I was starting to feel some of
Carlisle's anxiety. Being free-living bohemians, happily shucking off society's rules, had
been good fun in my twenties. But now, what, exactly, were we waiting for? We lived
together, every bit as domestic as Rose and Emmett…and now they had two kids to boot! I
really didn't want to show up in Forks still being introduced as just her boyfriend,
especially when that prat, Jacob was also now happily married with children. Maybe it was
juvenile of me and I'm sure Marguerite would tell me it was my latent, repressed masculine
uber-ego fighting to surface or whatever, but I didn't care. I wanted my ring on her finger,
my name attached to hers, her beloved unconventionality be damned. But she still brushed
off every suggestion of it. I couldn't quite put my finger on why, but making her my wife had
somehow become important to me. I just wasn't sure how to convince her to do it, to follow
me into traditional domesticity.

I growled in frustration, both at my tie and at my stupid, wayward thoughts. If we didn't get
a move-on, I'd be late to my own opening. I wandered out into the living room and only had
to cast one helpless, lost look at her and she was on her feet, fixing my tie for me. She
always seemed to know exactly what I needed…well, in most things.

Twenty minutes later, we were finally on our way. I'd had to break Bella out of whatever
odd trance she'd lapsed into in the bathroom, but after that she got dressed fairly quickly
and we got out the door.

It was still early when we got to the tiny Galerie des Près, but we needed to help set up.
Carlisle and Esme were already there, arranging bottles of champagne and crystal flutes on
a table. I took a quick, nervous glance around. The two small rooms were lined with my
paintings. It was a very modest little show, but it was the first time I was showing
completely solo. Every painting in the place was mine. It was exhilarating and intimidating
at the same time. I wanted to go take a closer look at everything, to make sure it was all
properly labeled and hanging where we'd decided, but Bella was pulling me over to the
table to greet Carlisle and Esme.

Carlisle clapped a friendly hand on my shoulder in greeting.

"How are you holding up, Edward?"

"Good. Alright. A little anxious," I smiled nervously and rubbed my hands together.

"Well, here. This should relax you a bit. Just have a breather."

"I should help you finish setting up," I protested.

Carlisle waved me off. "We're nearly done. Esme's a tyrant about party-planning."

Esme's delighted coo made us both look at her. Bella had produced the new snapshot of
Rose and Emmett and the kids. Esme had her hand clamped to her chest and if I wasn't
mistaken, her eyes were a little teary.

"Ah, mes chères!" she sighed. Carlisle stepped up behind her, settling his arm around her
shoulders. "Carlisle, as soon as the little one is old enough, they must come to visit. We'll
take the babies and chase Rose and Emmett off on their own for a bit, yes?"

Carlisle chuckled and kissed her temple gently. "Of course, darling. Whenever you'd like. It
would be wonderful to have the house filled with children."

"Mais oui," she murmured, staring lovingly at the photograph as Bella looked on, her face
glowing. She looked for all the world like she couldn't wait for Esme to coo over her
children, although she never seemed in any hurry to get started on that project.

We heard Jasper's boisterous laughter through the door before he and Alice ever entered. It
still struck me as odd sometimes to see him so happy, even though the dark, taciturn man
I'd first met five years ago was mostly a thing of the past. Alice stumbled through the door,
laughing, with Jasper's arms around her waist. I couldn't tell if he was helping to hold her
up or causing her to fall over. Neither of them seemed certain either. They were both
dressed to the nines, Jasper striking in a sharp black suit and Alice in a shiny red satin
dress, glittering with jewelry.

"Did you see his face?" Alice was shrieking with delight, which only caused Jasper to laugh
harder. "I thought he was going to deck you!"

"What happened?" I asked with a chuckle. You never knew what kind of trouble the two of
them had found. Alice had developed a reputation for setting fire to any party she showed
up at, so, consequently, they were invited everywhere and were out nearly every night of
the week. Jasper was still writing for the wire service as the new head of the Paris desk. He
held court at the center of a large community of ex-pat American journalists in Paris, and
Alice was always at his side: his witty, charming American wife. They were the toast of the
Parisian nightclub scene.

"Oh, Jasper was …and then this fella…" Alice was waving her hands helplessly in front of her
face, laughing and trying to explain at the same time. "And then I said….and then he…"
Finally she threw her hands up in defeat. "Oh, never mind. You had to be there."

"Alice," Bella called out to distract her, "come and see!"

Alice crossed to see the new picture of Rose's family and immediately fell into shrieks of
delight. Jasper rolled his eyes dramatically, but smiled as he accepted a champagne flute
from Carlisle and craned his neck to peer over Alice's shoulder.

We exchanged a few pleasantries and then I excused myself to take a look around the
gallery before people started arriving. On the whole, I was pleased with the collection. I'd
worked hard, and although there were always things I wished I could change or do better, I
felt proud of the show. Five years of good, solid work.

As I walked the perimeter of the room, letting my eyes flicker over the familiar canvases, I
felt like I could see little flashes of my life with Bella in every one. That splash of russet in
the corner of that canvas; I remembered looking up from the canvas and seeing the light
pouring through the window onto her as she bent over her desk, writing. The sunlight set
off highlights in her hair that were exactly that color. And in the next canvas, the
mysterious, half-formed hands in the foreground; those were Bella's hands. She was there,
in some way, in every canvas.

People were beginning to arrive, I heard voices and laughter and shouted hellos. I knew I
should head back to the front and mingle, but I hung back for just a few minutes longer. I
heard Marguerite arrive before I saw her, her booming, gravelly voice impossible to miss in
the tiny gallery. She scooped Bella up, kissing her soundly on both cheeks before releasing
her to take the champagne Carlisle was offering. She had stayed a constant friend and
advisor to Bella, always happy to read something for her and offer an opinion, or advise her
on her writing when she got stuck. Early on she'd introduced Bella to her group of writers
and literary critics, and it was through them that Bella had made the first contact that
eventually led to her publishing deal. We owed Marguerite a lot. Yet another odd member
of our peculiar Parisian family.

Over her shoulder I could see Julian talking with Alice. Of course he would show up if there
was free liquor involved. I was delighted to have him here, though, just as long as he
abstained from the bird calls tonight. I didn't think I could handle that. I saw several other
familiar faces in the crowd, all friends from our many nights at Esme's, all the creative,
artistic people that made our life here so worthwhile.

I really needed to get out of my corner and go mingle, but just then I saw Bella
disentangling herself from a conversation and start to make her way back to me. I was
happy to get another minute alone with her, smiling at her when she reached me.

"Hey, you," she said softly, stretching up on tiptoe to kiss me chastely.

"Hey, you. Come and take a look."

I took her hand and pulled her along behind me to look at the paintings.

"They look amazing, Edward," she said earnestly. "I'm so proud of you."

I smiled down at her. "Thank you, but it wouldn't have happened without you."

She scoffed. "Don't be silly! You're the painter. I can't do any of this." She waved a hand at
the canvases as we strolled past.

"But I was thinking earlier, and you're in every one, you know? Everything I look at, I see
something of you in it. You're always there, Bella."
She pulled me to a stop, staring at me, her mouth slightly open. "Edward," she breathed,
"You always say the most amazing things to me."

I shrugged. "It's just true." Then I pointed to the painting in the center of the back wall, a
few feet from where we'd stopped. "Like that. That painting was nothing. And then you
stepped into it and gave it a purpose. Just the way you stepped into my life and gave me a
purpose."

She turned her head to see which one I was pointing to. It was Girl with a Red Umbrella, the
painting I'd been working on the first night I saw her. Bella drifted forward until she was
right in front of it and I followed. We stood side by side for a few minutes, looking and
remembering. The cold, the rain, her pale cheek, her dark coat, the red umbrella…

"You know, you did the same for me, too," she said, softly.

"Did what?"

"Gave me a purpose. I was just as lost, I just didn't know it then. And then I stumbled into
that park and saw you and found exactly what I didn't even realize I'd been looking for."

I looked at her sideways and smiled, and she squeezed my hand.

"I love you, Bella."

"I love you, too."

"And someday," I continued, lightening my voice, trying to make a joke to shake us out of
our serious moment, "if I badger you enough, I might finally get you to agree to marry me.
Eventually you'll give in, you know. It's just a matter of time."

"I know," she murmured. "It's time."

"Wait, what?"

"You heard me."

I grabbed her arms with my hands, turning her to face me. "Be serious, Bella. Did you…did
you just say yes?"

She smiled, huge and beaming. "I said yes."

"And you're not teasing? This isn't you getting back at me for proposing to you on the metro
that time?"

She laughed and shook her head, moving forward into my arms, bringing her own up
around my waist. "It's no joke, Edward. I love you. I'll love you forever. I want to marry you,
if you'll still have me."

I was having a hard time controlling my grin. It was threatening to consume my face. The
loud, happy chatter of the crowd around me, the importance of tonight, it all faded away in
the magnitude of this moment.

"Have you? Just try getting rid of me! Come on!" I started to pull her towards the front of the
room. "Let's get some champagne and celebrate!"

"Wait!" She tugged back on my hand. "Not here. Not tonight. This is your night and I want it
to be all about you. Tomorrow we'll get everybody over to Esme's and we'll celebrate then,
okay?"

"Okay. Whatever you want, just no backing out." I pointed a warning finger at her and she
grabbed it with her own hand, laughing.

"I promise. You're stuck with me, Edward Cullen," she said. Then she leaned in to my ear as
she hooked one arm around my neck. "And tonight I'll take you home and we'll seal the
deal…any way you want to."

I groaned softly. The effect this woman had on my body never lessened and never ceased to
amaze me. Suddenly tonight, my big night, seemed absolutely endless.

"We have forever, Edward," she whispered. "Now let's go mingle."

I sighed and let her go, and she pulled me into the crowd. We were quickly swallowed up by
the people, all our friends who pressed in to shake my hand and congratulate me on my
success. But through it all I never let go of Bella's hand, content now in the knowledge that
now I never would. We would walk through the rest of our days, wherever they led us, just
like this, side-by-side and hand-in-hand.
* * *The End* * *

La Résistance: Esme’s Story

A Companion Piece to GWaRU
Chapter 1
May, 1941
A wise man once said that a journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step.
Whenever Esme Benoit thinks of that night at the house in 1941, and she thinks of it many,
many times over the years, she is reminded of that saying. Because, looking back, it was
that night that marked the beginning; it was that night that started Esme on a journey she
never could have imagined.
But on that night in May, one year after France signed its armistice with Germany,
effectively handing them the country tied in a bow, Esme is not thinking of ancient eastern
philosophers. She is also trying not to think about France and the war and more than
anything, she is trying not to think about Germans.
The house is busy, smoky, loud. She supposes that some people might find the low thrum of
chaos unsettling, upsetting. But for Esme the chatter of voices punctuated by bursts of
laughter or shouts of an argument breaking out, all underscored with music, always music,
is like a lullaby to her. She loves the house, this tall, slightly shabby grand dame of a
Parisian townhouse, but she always finds it a bit sad when the house is empty. This house
feels like home when it is filled with people and their conversation and art and life.
The crowd may be sparser now than it was in its glory days before the war, but it still
thrums with life and energy, and as Esme passes from room to room, bestowing warm
smiles and slight touches on her many guests, she too feels alive, even though many old
familiar faces are missing.
So many people have scattered to the winds in the face of the war that's swept through
Europe. Things are hard all over France, but especially so in Paris. Esme is insulated
somewhat from the privations, one of the many benefits of her vast network of friends and
of course, the money fixes everything. But for most in Paris there is never enough food,
there is no gas, no clothes, no shoes. Those who have the ability to travel and somewhere to
go have left. Word has it things are not quite so bad in the countryside.
Yes, many have left to wait out the war in the countryside, but many more are just…gone.
Amongst the many leftist artists, musicians and writers of Esme's wide acquaintance, there
were those who spoke out against the German Occupation. They wrote articles for
underground papers, they sent missives to magazines overseas, they spoke at rallies. And
for their troubles, they were arrested and charged with treason. So many, Esme thinks
nervously. So many talented, brilliant minds silenced, rotting away in Vichy prisons. There
is no word from them, no way to even tell if they are alright.
Esme shakes off the anxiety and fear. It does them no good. The good Esme can do is here, in
her house, preserving what she has built. A safe place for creative minds, a welcoming
home, someplace where ideas meet and genius flows. This, she determines, will not be
swept away by this godforsaken war.
The parlor is full, the conversation there lively and fierce, it needs no coaxing or help from
her, so she glides past her guests there and back into the entryway where she encounters
Aro, just shrugging out of his sharp trench coat.
"Aro, my love! I didn't dream that I would see you tonight! What a delightful surprise!" As
Esme fusses over him, she gently divests him of his coat. Tati, the young maid, is there, arms
outstretched silently to receive the coat as Esme reaches behind her and releases it. Aro,
Aaron David to nearly everyone else in Paris, beams at Esme as he takes a moment to
straighten his red silk ascot and brush off the lapels of his finely tailored gray wool
pinstripe suit. Esme settles her hands on his shoulders and leans up on tiptoe to kiss his
smooth high cheekbone. Her lipstick leaves a mark, which she tsks over as she tries to
smudge it away with her thumb. Aro smiles indulgently at her before gently shooing her
away and dealing with the lipstick with his own crisp white handkerchief.
"Esme, darling, how is it that when every man, woman and child in Paris is looking like a
refugee, you just look more stunning every single time I see you?"
Esme rolls her eyes at his overblown compliment, but hooks her arm in his, pulling him
after her into the dining room in search of liquor. Aro stops in front of the old streaked
eighteenth century wall mirror with the ornate gold rococo frame and carefully smooths
his slicked-down black hair.
"It's my wickedness that keeps me lovely," she says, lightly. "What are you drinking?"
"Do you have gin?"
She nods and fishes for the bottle amongst the large assortment on the sideboard.
"Oh, thank heavens. No one has gin these days. With tonic, please, my dear."
Esme fixes his drink and Aro sips it, letting out a dramatic moan of ecstasy.
"You have saved my life with this, my love."
Esme smiles at him, genuinely delighted to have him here. She loves every visitor to her
home, but a few, like Aro, are close to her heart. This tiny circle is like family. Aro, poet and
literary critic, has been a frequent visitor to Esme's house for over a decade. He was one of
the first and he brought many others with him. Aro, and his revered opinion, helped create
the myth of Esme Benoit, and as a result he is one of the few people who can claim to be
truly close to the reality that is Esme Benoit. Aro met Esme before she was the woman she is
today, when she was just a young girl, freshly escaped from the countryside and her
abusive, loutish husband and looking to reinvent herself in Paris. Aro took her under his
wing and showed her around. It was Aro who introduced her to the wealthy older man who
eventually became her lover, who doted on her and showed her for the first time in her life
what it was like to be cared for. It was his beneficence in his will that led to Esme's owning
the house they now stood in. In many ways, Aro considered Esme amongst his greatest
creations. She was, at least, the one he was most proud of.
"It's so crowded down here tonight, Aro," Esme says. "I want to talk to you, really talk. Come
upstairs with me."
Aro takes just a moment to add another splash of gin to his glass, because who knows how
long it might be until he enjoys another gin and tonic, before picking his way around the
people perched casually along the stairs, up to the second floor. Esme is stopped
momentarily on the second floor landing, by some artist who wishes to know what she
thought of the exhibit at Salon des Prés last week. She gives her opinion, diplomatic but
decided, generous and gracious but informed, before excusing herself. Aro notices,
scattered amongst Esme's guests tonight, a handful of German soldiers in uniform. He
raises his eyebrows but chooses to say nothing, at least for the moment.
She pulls Aro along up to the third floor. Esme's guests rarely wander as far as the third
floor and it's here, facing away from the street, that Esme's boudoir lies. Aro has been here
before, many times in fact. Other men have been here with Esme but she does not bring
them here for quiet conversation. And Aro would never be here for anything else with
Esme. He suspects that it's this, the fact that he will never desire her sexually, that has made
them so close. Esme has spent her life desired and in many ways it's worked well for her, in
many ways she likes it. But she also likes being able to forget her beauty and allure and Aro
lets her do that.
Esme curls herself gracefully down onto a small loveseat with gold brocade upholstery and
Aro settles in next to her. She folds a leg up underneath her so that she can face him and he
angles his long lanky body to mirror her. The minute he sits down, the fatigue catches up to
him and his head lolls back on the gold carved back. Esme notices immediately.
"Aro, love, you are exhausted."
"Just too much work, Esme."
"The magazine is so busy?" she says, eyebrows raised. The tiny avant-garde literary
magazine that he works for hardly requires backbreaking labor from him, she knows this.
"No, not the magazine. I've been helping…you know….the war." Aro is deliberately cagey in
his response. These days, nothing is spelled out.
Esme rarely engages in these discussions of the war and the opposition, but tonight she sits
up straighter and her eyebrows draw together. "What are you up to?"
"Just some writing," he says, "For some of the underground newspapers."
"Oh, Aro, be careful! They can arrest you for that! Why do you take these risks?"
"Because somebody has to, Esme. Somebody needs to stand up and say something."
"But what if they come after you?"
He relaxes a little and smiles, to reassure her, because her expression is frantic. "Don't
worry, love. If it gets too hot here in Paris, maybe I'll go stay with my old auntie in Lorraine.
She makes cheese. It will be delightful."
It does the trick, the image makes Esme laugh out loud.
"Maybe I'll roll up my sleeves and get right down in there with the hairy old goats." Aro
holds his pale manicured hands out in front of him, examining his fingernails. Esme laughs
harder. "Oh, so picturing me with my auntie's goats is funny, is it?" he laughs, too.
"Aro," she waves a hand helplessly in front of her, trying to control her laughter, "you have
no idea..."
"Well, I'm glad I could amuse you my dear."
Esme takes a few deep breaths to get herself under control. "So, aside from poking at the
government with a stick to make it mad, what else have you been up to? What about
Marcus? Is he still causing you worries?"
Aro rolls his eyes dramatically. "Don't even mention his name!" he cries.
"So it's all over then?"
"Completely. He's such a scared little boy. I understand the need to be…discreet. Especially
in the wider world. But if one can't at least be honest with oneself, then there really is no
hope."
"What do you mean?" Esme presses him.
"He's been taking out some woman. A girl, really. Nineteen, from a good family."
"Ah," Esme intones in understanding. "Poor girl. That can only end badly. He can't lie to
himself forever."
"Precisely. But it's no longer any concern of mine."
"And there's no one new for you?"
Aro turns his head on the back of the couch to smile wearily at her. "Romance has been low
on my list of priorities these days. Who has time for love?"
"Aro!" Esme lightly taps his arm and says decidedly, "There's nothing more important."
"Ha! Says you!"
"Why, what do you mean?" Esme draws herself up slightly at his laughter.
"Esme Benoit, who has never been in love and probably never will be," Aro says, but not
unkindly.
Esme takes a moment to consider his words. It's true that she's never been in love. She's a
great believer in it, a lover of love, as it were. She loves love if for nothing else than for its
ability to inspire and direct great art. It draws out the best in people, and for that she loves
it. But love, the romantic, hearts-afire kind? No, she's never known it and now that Aro has
put such a fine point on it, she can't actually imagine herself ever feeling such an innocent,
girlish emotion. She's had many lovers and some she has cared for a great deal, but love?
No. That kind of love, the kind Aro means, requires faith and trust. Esme may have once
been able to have faith and trust in a man when she was very young, but those days are long
gone for her. He's probably right, she decides with a shrug, she will never be in love. She is
not particularly saddened by this thought.
"Alright, you have a point. But just because there will be no great love in my life doesn't
mean that I can't wish for it for those I care for. You, my dear Aro, are designed to love
deeply."
Aro shakes his head sadly. "This world is unkind to lovers at the moment. One should not
love in a time of war. It's just asking for heartbreak."
"Oh, to hell with the war!" Esme says, with as much venom as she is ever wont to use, which
is not much.
"Don't let your Nazi soldiers downstairs hear you say that," he says with a sly sidelong
glance.
Esme makes a face. "Bah! Cretins, every one of them. Their leaders denounce us, call us
degenerates, but they all want to be here, right in the thick of things, in the heart of the
degeneracy. But they cause no trouble, so I let them stay. Who knows? Maybe a few nights
here will broaden their horizons, and then they won't be such dreadful bores."
Aro narrows his eyes, studying her carefully. She is dismissive of them, but there is no fear,
only scorn. This worries him. "Be careful, my love. They are the enemy, and a very
dangerous enemy at that. Always remember that. This is a war."
Esme sighs heavily and waves a hand absently through the air as she fishes out her
cigarette case from the tiny table next to the loveseat. Aro leans forward instinctively with
his matches. Once her cigarette is glowing, she leans back and examines him through the
smoke. She flicks a long dark red nail against the tip of her tongue to remove a speck of
tobacco.
"It's all just politics, Aro. And you know I don't get involved in politics."
"With all due respect, love, a war is a good deal more than just politics. Even you must
acknowledge that."
"Not at all. Just men…boys, really…acting out their silly games on a much bigger scale. They
plan their battles on their little maps and halfway across Europe people starve and die.
Boys playing with their toy soldiers. Just like all of them."
"Yes, but these boys are dangerous. More than I think the world has seen before. We are all
in peril."
"Oh, Aro, what makes you so melancholy tonight? Yes, things are unspeakably dreary right
now, but surely it can't last forever. Soon they will leave us in peace and things will go back
to the way they were."
Aro turns to her more fully, examining her face long and hard.
"This time is different, Esme. Please take care. And be cautious with the Germans, do
promise me."
She is taken aback slightly by his seriousness, his obvious concern.
"Of course, Aro, my love. Anything for you."
"You don't know what you're dealing with," he continues, earnestly. Then he recovers
himself, his usual insouciance, and leans back on the couch with a smirk. "Although why I
worry is beyond me. If there's a woman in Paris who can handle the Nazis, it will be Esme
Benoit."
At the time, Esme just laughs her low throaty laugh and drinks her gin. But Aro's words, her
dear, lost Aro, come back to her many times over the intervening years. His warning will
haunt her.
*
*
*
March, 1942
Esme stands in front of the window of what used to be her favorite lingerie shop. Over the
years, all her favorite delicate, lacy confections have come from this shop and Madame
Giselle with her impeccable taste. Esme knows she should go in and say hello, she hasn't
seen Madame Giselle in ages, but if she goes in she will be confronted with the fact that the
shelves are bare, that there is nothing to buy. There is no silk for clothes, it's all taken for
the war. No lace, either. Nothing gets in from Belgium, even the lace. And stockings? Forget
them. No one has had stockings for a year, at least.
So Esme simply checks her lipstick in her reflection, adjusts her dark red kid gloves a bit,
and moves on. The streets are quiet. Not empty, but quiet. It is late March, not yet spring,
but it's in the air. The cold bite is gone, as well as the damp chill. Normally it's the kind of
weather that can lift the spirits, as one can finally begin to sense the end of winter and the
return of sun and warmth.
This year, however, the sun and warmth will bring little of comfort with them. France will
stay bleak and spiritless. The war drags on, grows worse. Paris suffers, but they are almost
used to the privations now, the lack of anything decent to eat, the lack of clothes, fuel. It is a
dreary familiarity, but it has become familiar. In addition to the bitterness of daily life,
there is the unrelenting bad news. Official reports are so slim. The Nazis control the papers,
the radio, so much so that it's hardly worth listening to. One can't trust what one hears
there, so what's the point? One has to rely on rumors, stories spread between neighbors on
the streets, whispered over the sparse, rotten produce at the markets.
The stories…they are horrific. So bad that Esme knows a full two-thirds, maybe more, are
nothing but gruesome fantasy. The French have grown weary and resentful of the occupiers
and have taken to painting them in the very blackest imagery possible. The rumors about
them pass from person to person and grow exponentially worse with every retelling. This is
what accounts for tales of horror so grim that the old fairy tales pale in comparison.
However, it's not as if she's necessarily fond of the Nazis. She's hardly eager to defend them.
The officers stationed in Paris spend so many of their evenings at her house that they've
scared away nearly all that remained of her old friends. She sees almost no one from the old
days any more. More have fled, more have been arrested. Any still left free in Paris don't
want to socialize with the Germans, so they stay away. And Aro, she hasn't seen Aro
in…what? Esme pauses on the sidewalk as she calculates and realizes that it's been ten
months since she's seen Aro. How is that possible? It's so easy to get lost in the day-to-day
trials and small struggles. Time just slips away. He must have gone to stay with his aunt in
Lorraine after all. The thought of him amongst her goats makes her smile.
As she looks around herself at the waning light reflecting off the buildings, she realizes that
the hour is growing later and she needs to get home. Guests will arrive soon and someone
must be there to greet them. Esme is saddened to realize that for the first time in her life,
the thought of a house full of company does not make her happy. She is only filled with
weariness at the thought of the night ahead. They will be polite, to be sure, but she will find
no enjoyment in the conversation. It will all just be a tedious chore. And she'll have to speak
German all night. She'd spoken a little at the start of the war, but over the course of the past
year, spending so much time entertaining the officers, she's been forced to become fluent.
And of all the languages to learn, German has no beauty to her ear.
She thinks, not for the first time, that maybe she should leave for the country like Aro.
Perhaps the time has come to close up the house and take a little farmhouse in another
province. She will go mad in the quiet of the country, of this she is sure, but it could hardly
be worse than this, this mockery of her old life through which she shuffles every day.
Esme turns the familiar corner onto Rue de Jardinier, where her beloved gold house waits
at the end. She takes only a few steps towards it when she sees Gérard lounging on his
mother's front steps, smoking in the shadows of the building. Esme sighs deeply and steels
herself for the inevitable nasty comments. Gérard is a grown man, too old to still be living
with his mother. He disappears for long periods of time, either gone to jail for some petty
offense or mixed up in some other sort of mischief. But when he is out of money with
nowhere else to go, he descends again on his poor, besieged mother. When here, he spends
his days smoking and lounging on the steps and his nights drinking and seeking out more
trouble. For years he has lusted after Esme and made no great secret of it. She is repulsed
by him. He's a dirty, rude, ignorant boor and she's made no attempts to hide her disdain.
Her haughty dismissals of his vulgar propositions only make him bolder, however. His
beady eyes are on her from the moment she turns the corner. He looks drunk already. His
white undershirt is filthy and sweat-stained and too small for his bulging gut, and his ruddy
face is shadowed with his dark black stubble. His hair is a greasy slick across his forehead.
"Well, well, if it isn't Madame Benoit," he drawls as she approaches. He always layers her
name with sarcasm, as if there is some great joke to be found in calling her Madame. He has
made thinly-veiled aspersions in the past about her, that she's not really married, that she's
actually running some sort of bordello in her house. If only he knew how happy she'd be to
call herself Mademoiselle…
"Good evening, Gérard," she says curtly, eyes averted. She never calls him monsieur. In her
mind, it's a gesture of respect, and he has earned none from her. It's also her way of
reminding him that he's a good deal younger than her, and that she's friends with his
mother. It never has any affect on his behavior.
"Off to host another one of your little soirees, I take it?" he sneers, throwing his cigarette
butt to the ground.
"I have some guests coming over soon, yes. So if you'll excuse me…"
"Always so snooty."
"Pardon?"
"You. Prancing up and down this street in your fine clothes with your nose in the air for all
these years, like no one's good enough to touch you."
Esme draws herself up, eyes narrowed. She is a small woman, but when she is angry, she is
a sight to behold. "How on earth a sainted woman like your dear mother was able to
produce such a worthless piece of vermin is beyond me, Gérard. You should be ashamed of
yourself. You besmirch her good name."
Gérard's face contorts with rage and he takes a step towards her. Esme doesn't budge. Fear
is not an emotion she often indulges in, not anymore. When she does not cower, just
continues to fix him with her furious stare, he pauses and that's all Esme needs to regain
control of the confrontation.
"Why don't you make yourself useful to her for once and clean up that mess?" she flings an
imperious gloved finger at his cigarette butts littering the front stoop before she turns on
her heel and continues on towards her house.
"Things are changing, missy, you mark my words," he shouts after her. "This new
government, they put a value on men like me, men who can do something for them. It's
stuck up little tramps like you who'll pay!"
Esme sighs and shakes her head, but doesn't look back or acknowledge him again in any
way. Once inside, Tati greets her at the door to take her coat, gloves, and bag. Esme smooths
her hair in the front hall mirror and looks hard at her reflection. The country. Maybe it
wouldn't be the end of the world.
Esme's resolution to close up the house and move to the country is only given further
reinforcement after spending an evening entertaining her German guests. They are
gracious enough, she supposes, and the officers always make sure a case of wine or
champagne is delivered to her house, along with some other otherwise-unavailable
delicacy, chocolates or caviar, to thank her for her hospitality.
But she cannot bear the quality of their conversation, regardless of their consideration.
There is no more talk in this house of art or music, unless it's some ignorant officer waxing
rhapsodic about Wagner, simply because his Führer adores the composer. Their talk is
nothing but tedium, their presence nothing but a trial for her. No, as much as it breaks her
heart to contemplate, she must close the house, take Tati and rent a little farmhouse
somewhere.
She is thinking on this as she stands in the dining room at the bar. She's deciding what to
drink while she decides where to go. The Loire Valley? She was born there, but she hasn't
been back since she escaped at seventeen. There are probably too many bad memories
there, she decides. Perhaps Provence, then, where they grow the lavender and the olives.
That could be nice…
"Paris is nice and all," she hears the young German officer behind her telling his friend, "But
it's just so quiet here. Feels like we've been put out to pasture a long way out of the action.
My brother's in Africa, and they're going to Egypt! Now he's going to see some action, let me
tell you!"
His companion goes on to point out to his friend all the ways in which Paris is superior to
North Africa, but Esme has stopped listening to them. She's not sure why his words have
caught her attention. In and of themselves they mean nothing to her. So what, the boy has a
brother in Africa? Why should this matter to her? But at the same time, she can't let go of
the tiny fact. Africa…going to Egypt.

~*~

May, 1942
Esme stands quietly at the bookseller's stall, absently looking over the titles. She doesn't
need any more books, of that she is certain. But she continues to linger and read the
newspaper headlines over the shoulder of the man standing next to her. It's about the
attack on the German headquarters at Arras. It's nearly impossible to sort out the truth, it's
all a lot of chest-thumping and propaganda. The article makes it sound as if an army
marched on a poor, defenseless lightly-manned outpost. But Esme has heard the whispers
on the streets. It was the Resistance. It was stealthy and quick and they destroyed the
German headquarters single-handedly. When talk of the Resistance began, she hardly gave
it credence. A bunch of ragtag revolutionaries fighting off the Nazis from basements and
farmhouses? It seemed noble, but ill-advised and ultimately hopeless.
But they've taken out the German headquarters at Arras. No one speaks of it out loud, but
everyone knows that's how it happened. The streets of Paris are abuzz with the news. Esme
thinks of buying the paper to read it in more detail, but it will just be more lies, so there's
hardly any point. She's desperate to know the whole story, though, even if she can't say
why.
She's absently turning over an old edition of A Thousand and One Nights when she hears a
familiar voice behind her.
"Esme Benoit?"
She turns to see Caius Faubourgh, whom she has not laid eyes on in months and months. He
used to be a frequent visitor at the house, but that was before. He's one of the many who
stopped coming. Since he's here in Paris, she has to assume it's the Germans who keep him
away.
Caius is a huge man, well over six feet, and massively barrel-chested. He slouches a good
deal, the product of being an overly-large man in a too-small world. He's always rumpled,
wrinkled jacket hanging like a sack from his shoulders, shirt unbuttoned at the neck, wilted
tie sloppily knotted and loosened. He has a short beard, now laced with grey that didn't
used to be there. His sandy hair is swept away from his face, and his hairline, Esme notices,
has crept back since she last saw him. His round, wire-rimmed glasses seem far too small
for his face and are perched, slightly crooked, on the end of his nose.
As she turns to look up at him, a loose, lazy grin splits his face.
"It is you. Esme, you look magnificent."
"Caius! It's been months! Where have you been hiding yourself?" Esme leans up impulsively
to kiss his cheek, because she really is delighted to see him. He's a writer, absolutely
brilliant. His novels hardly sell anything, but she has them all, autographed by him. He's a
genius whose time has not yet come. It's what she's always told him.
"Oh, here and there, you know?" his eyes shoot away from her as he answers and land
briefly on the newspaper to her side. His gaze focuses minutely.
"What are you writing these days?"
"Writing?" he looks back to her, puzzled, as if the thought were entirely foreign. "I'm not
writing at all right now. Far too busy."
"Too busy for your art? This is what happens when you stay away from my house too long,
Caius," she teases gently. "You lose your way."
"Yes, well, I'm not exactly fond of your new guests."
Esme's smile drops away and she waves a hand. "It's not as if they were invited, Caius. And
one can't exactly turn them away."
Caius's expression softens and he reaches out to squeeze her arm lightly. "I know, Esme. I
do miss the old days there. How is everyone?"
"I can hardly tell you. No one comes around anymore. So many people have left town."
Caius looks at her closely, eyes slightly narrowed. "Left or been taken?"
Esme stares back. "What do you mean?"
"Well, you hear the stories."
She scoffs and waves a hand. "I hear rumors and whispers. I hear people letting their
imaginations run away with them. Honestly, Caius, you can't possibly give credence to these
crazy rumors floating about, can you?"
Caius looks at her for a long silent moment. When he speaks again, his voice is slower,
measured. "Esme, will you come and have a coffee with me? Do you have time?"
"Of course, darling. I'd like nothing better."
Caius takes her elbow and they make their way to a café nearby. The day is warm enough
that they sit outside on the sidewalk. Esme starts to settle at one table, but Caius pulls her
past it, to one at the farthest edge of the seating area, one table in from the people
streaming past. Caius flags the waiter and orders two coffees. There is not much on the
menu in the way of food, but Esme waves off his offer to order something.
Caius's eyes flit nervously around them. Esme notices and it makes her nervous. She's never
seen him so keyed up, his ordinary demeanor is so relaxed. He seems to be ensuring that
they are alone.
"Caius, is something wrong?" she finally asks, after the waiter has left their coffees.
His jumpy eyes cut back to her and he looks at her intently for a long moment, his fingers
drumming lightly on the table. "When did you last see Aaron David?" he finally asks.
The question seems so innocuous as to be completely out of place with his current mood.
"Last May. He's gone to stay with his aunt in Lorraine."
"You've heard from him?" Caius's voice is disbelieving.
"Well, no. You know how hard it is to get a letter through to anywhere these days. When I
last saw him he said he might go stay there. Since I hadn't heard from him I just assumed…"
Esme found herself trailing off, unable to finish the thought under Caius's fierce,
unwavering gaze.
"He's not in Lorraine, Esme," he finally says softly.
"What do you know?" Esme's voice is faint and slightly breathless. She is suddenly cold all
over, there is something bad, something black, just around the corner ahead of her which
must be faced.
"The stories, the rumors…every wretched, horrible thing you've heard…it's all true. All of it
and worse."
Esme leans back slightly. Caius leans forward, arms on the table. He drops his voice to a
slight murmur, so only she can hear.
"I've been working with the Resistance. Many people from the old days have been. Aaron
was."
"I…I knew he was doing some writing…" her sense of dread grows stronger as she realizes
that Caius is speaking about Aro in the past tense and she just did as well.
"Yes, yes. Writing and more. It mattered so very much to him, you see. In light of what they
were doing."
"They?" Esme repeats. She feels slow and flat-footed in this conversation, as if there is a lot
she doesn't understand. She doesn't like the feeling, but at the same time, some prickling
premonition is telling her that she doesn't want to know. "The Nazis? What they're doing?"
Caius shoots one more urgent look around him before leaning in closer. "The deportations
of the Jews… the camps, it's all true. They're killing them."
"No." The word is nothing more than a whisper forced involuntarily from her lips, a willing
away of the thing she feels bearing down on her.
"I've talked to men who've seen it with their own eyes. The bastards have a plan, Esme.
They want to kill them all."
"But…but here in France…" she's desperate to believe that this, France, her home, could not
be a party to this.
"Here, too. They're already taking them."
"Aro?" her hand flies to her mouth to cover the scream that wants to escape.
Caius leans back slightly and pauses, watching her. "They arrested him last August, took
him from his house in the middle of the night. They sent him to Drancy."
She knows the name Drancy. It was the prison camp they'd just built outside Paris, for the
ones accused of treason, that's what the Nazis told the Parisians.
"And he's there now?"
Caius shakes his head sadly. "Sent on to Auschwitz by now," he murmurs softly. "Of course,
there's no way to know for certain. They won't tell you, and if you ask, they'll arrest you,
too."
Esme can't speak or respond in any way. She is thinking, remembering her last night with
Aro at her house, his head leaning back on the sofa as he smiled his louche smile at her. It's
all she can see in this long, screaming moment.
"Esme," Caius continues urgently, softly, leaning forward again, "you are in the belly of the
beast now. You must remember that." Then he leans back abruptly, looking around himself,
"I should go. We've spoken too long as it is. People might talk. Take care of yourself, my
dear." He carefully unfolds his massive body from the tiny café chair and taps the table
twice in farewell. Esme can only watch his shape recede down the sidewalk before he
disappears into the crowd.
For a long time she does nothing. Her hands are on the table before her, her fingers spread
wide. Her mind simply runs back through everything she's heard for the past several
months, every rumor, every whispered, far-fetched, unbelievable accusation, and she looks
at them with new eyes. "I've talked to men who've seen it with their own eyes." That's what
Caius said. "It's all true. They're killing them." And what she's heard…people packed into
trains like cattle, camps, starvation, gas chambers, women and children, too….She closes
her eyes at the imagined horrors. But they are not imagined. They are real. Happening right
now.
Esme feels a dark black line being drawn through her life, straight through this moment.
Forever there will be everything that came before this, when such things, such
monstrosities were too much to believe, when horrors like this only existed in fairy tales.
And there will be everything that comes after, when it is all true, when men have proven
themselves to be blacker than she ever thought possible. She thought she knew, she
thought she understood first-hand how wicked, how depraved men could be. But this…this
is evil that she can scarcely comprehend. It's happening far away in Germany, but Caius said
it's happening here…right here in Paris.
Aro…Esme gasps and the dam breaks as she remembers Aro and what Caius told her.
Drancy…then some place called Auschwitz. She begins to moan. She would weep, but this is
too raw, her emotions too feral. She just curls on herself and rocks and wails softly, her
hands fisted against her chest, blind to the world around her. No one pays her any mind.
Times are hard. People weeping on the streets is not an unusual sight. Aro, she thinks, his
name repeating in her head as the reality comes crashing down. Taken, most likely dead by
now. She clamps her hands down hard over her mouth to hold back the screaming that's
struggling to get out.
Esme loses track of how long she sits there. She loses track of her very existence in that long
moment of reckoning. But she's a strong woman and although part of her wishes her mind
would just snap so she didn't have to face this for another minute, she knows it won't. She
will remain whole, she will have to carry on, she will have to decide what to do. Because in
that moment, it is perfectly clear that she will do something. She cannot turn her head and
choose to go back into ignorance. That is impossible for her. No, this, this bitter knowledge
she has gained today will change her forever, of that much she's certain, even if the details
are not entirely clear.
She sits at the café until the Esme she knows reappears. There is still a day to get through,
there are still guests to be dealt with tonight…her blood runs cold. Nazis. They will be in her
home tonight. They've been in her home for a year. She feels ill, truly ill, as she thinks of all
the nights she has talked and laughed with them. Did they know? Did they all know what
was happening? The horrors break on her afresh. Did one of them take Aro? Did they pick
him out at her house and target him?
She doesn't know what she will do. How can she go home and face them? How can she smile
and open her door to those monsters? Caius's words ring in her head. "You are in the belly
of the beast now." Indeed. But if she bars them from the house, what then?
Esme is a smart woman, cool and collected, even under duress. It only takes her a moment
to calm herself down and examine the situation dispassionately. Tonight, unless she does
something extremely reckless, like publicly denouncing them, the Nazis will be at her door,
demanding her hospitality. They will come and drink her wine and play her records and
talk. Talk.
"Africa…going to Egypt."
The young officer's words of a few weeks back whisper in her head again. They would come
and talk. And they just might say things that were useful, things that they should not. That
young officer, he said his brother was on the move to Egypt soon. Does that mean the
Germans were about to invade, to try to take Egypt back from the Allies? Do the Allies know
this?
What if she tells them?
It takes Esme a full minute of quiet contemplation to comprehend what she was
considering doing. She could spy on them. She could let the filthy bastards keep coming, she
could smile and let them drink her wine…and she could listen. She will need someone to
pass on what she's heard. Caius…she stands unthinkingly, scanning the crowd in the
direction he'd gone. But of course, that was hours ago now, back before her whole world
was changed.
The Resistance. Caius said there were a lot of people she knew working for them. She will
have to make discreet inquiries, find someone who can help her. She knows that if they find
her out she might meet a fate worse that Aro's. But she also knows that she no longer cares.
Let them do their worst. To sit by while this evil, this sick madness unfolded all around her
is unthinkable. And she is no soldier; she has no guns and knives to attack with. So she will
use the weapons she does have, the ones she's spent her whole life honing, apparently to be
used in this one grim moment in time; her beauty, her charm, her powers of persuasion. It
will require the performance of a lifetime. She simply hopes she can be good enough.
~*~

Chapter 2

Esme approaches Café Flore the next day and is hit with an uncharacteristic attack of
nerves right before she is set to walk in. So much so that she has to take a step back away
from the door and circle the block once before she can try again. She casts furtive glances
around herself as she approaches for the second time, although if anyone were really
watching her, she doubts she would realize it.
Finally she gets angry with herself, because she has never been the sort of woman to shy
away from difficult situations. Besides, how on earth can she hope to follow through with
the rest of it if she can't find the courage to make this initial inquiry? After all, this is just
Café Flore. She knows everyone here. They are all old friends. She is stopping in to say
hello, nothing more. Why should that be any cause for concern?
One more steeling deep breath and she enters. She knows Pierre, who's standing behind
the bar, lazily wiping glasses. And she knows Charlotte, the waitress, who is leaning on the
bar, chatting with Pierre. The place is nearly empty. This is partly because Esme has chosen
to come at three, well after the lunch rush, but before the dinner crowd. And partly it's
because all the restaurants are nearly empty these days.
She walks straight back to the bar, smiling at Pierre and Charlotte.
"Esme Benoit!" Pierre smiles, looking up from the glasses. "It's been too long!" he reaches
across the bar and takes Esme's gloved hand, kissing it gallantly. Esme turns to Charlotte,
pulling her close and kissing her on both cheeks. "What brings you to us today, my dear?"
"I was walking by and realized how long it's been since I've seen my old friends here. I
thought I'd stop for a Kir Royale and we could catch up a little."
Pierre and Charlotte smile and accept her story without question. Pierre makes a fuss over
her, getting down one of the cut crystal glasses he saves for people's wedding celebrations
before pouring her a Kir. Charlotte bustles around her, wiping down the counter, asking
her if she'd like a bowl of nuts, or maybe olives. Esme declines it all, she just accepts her Kir
and sips delicately. She asks all the expected questions, she asks about Maxim, Pierre's boss
and another old friend. She asks after Pierre's mother, who she recalls is in bad health. The
conversation is easy and superficial, comparing notes on who has seen who, who is in town.
They skirt all mention of those who have inexplicably vanished.
Without missing a beat or changing her tone in any way, Esme says, "You know, speaking of
old friends, I ran into Caius Faubourgh yesterday."
Pierre's expression never changes, but Esme thinks she notices him hesitate just a moment
before responding.
"Oh? And how is Caius?"
"The same as he always is, dear man. Maybe looking a little older, just like all of us!" Esme
says lightly. This is it, she thinks, it's now or never. "He's such a dear man. I have a little
problem, I find myself in need of a consultation about a certain matter, and he was so
helpful in suggesting just who I ought to see."
Esme stops there, lets it hang in the air. Pierre says nothing for a moment, he keeps his eyes
on the bar, which suddenly requires his full attention.
"Is that so?" he finally says. "I'm glad he could help you out." And nothing else. He does not
meet her eyes, he gives her no clues that any other information might be forthcoming.
Although as she watches him carefully, she is sure he is refraining from saying something.
She is new to all this, this subterfuge, this coded language, and she has no idea how far she
can go, how explicit she can be. So she leaves off, inwardly dejected, already flipping
through her friends in her mind, determining who she should speak with next.
"Well, well, my friends, I really must be going. So many things to attend to." Esme slides off
the bar stool and slips her gloves back on before retrieving her bag. "It was so lovely to visit
with you both. Pierre, do send my regards to your lovely mother."
He smiles at her then, awkwardly, "I'll do that, Esme. Thank you. She always did like you."
"And I adore her. Take care of yourself, Pierre, Charlotte."
Esme gives them each a smile and a tiny nod of the head before turning for the exit. She is
nearly out the door when Charlotte's voice stops her.
"Esme! Your handkerchief!" Charlotte is hurrying towards her, a wrinkled little
handkerchief clutched in her fist…a handkerchief that Esme is sure is not hers. But she
turns and beams a flawless smile at Charlotte. When Charlotte reaches her, Esme takes the
handkerchief and pulls Charlotte in close to kiss her cheek. As Charlotte's smooth, pale
cheek is pressed to her own, Esme hears her frantic whisper in her ear.
"The catacombs. Go tonight after nine. Tell them I sent you."
Then Charlotte is leaning back and when Esme sees her face, there is not a single indication
that anything at all had passed between them other than a grateful farewell between
friends. Esme keeps her game smile in place until she is well away from Café Flore. The
catacombs. Of all the vile places. Of course they would be meeting down there. Who else on
earth would venture there except a bunch of desperate renegades? It seems somehow
fitting; those marked for death mingling around down there with the centuries of Parisians
already dead. Esme chooses not to dwell any further on the morbid overtones of this train
of thought.

~*~

She realizes almost immediately that she's worn all the wrong things. She chose her crisp
brown tweed suit because it wouldn't show dirt, but the skirt is tight and narrow. As soon
as she finds the tiny door at the street level, she's confronted with an endless rickety spiral
staircase down into the dark and the skirt is a hindrance. Trousers would have been
smarter, although Esme abhors them. She's also wearing her lovely tan suede pumps and
the ground, when she finally reaches it, is nothing but packed dirt. They'll be ruined for
sure.
Now that she's down here, she realizes that she's never been before. Parisian children come
here, they like to scare each other with stories of ghosts and skeletons come to life. But
Esme was an adult when she arrived in Paris. She knew of the catacombs, of course, and she
even had a vague sense of where the entrance was, but she's never come. She was smart
enough, however, to bring her tiny emergency lantern, which she needed the second she
stepped off the street.
She's somewhat surprised that no one met her as she stepped off the street, or at least at
the bottom of the stairs. But there is no one, no sign of life. The air is cool and musty and
still and there is not a hint of light from anywhere. It is unremittingly dark in every
direction and absolutely silent. She wonders if perhaps Charlotte was wrong about the
night. Or if maybe the meeting was cancelled and she didn't know. Considering the
circumstances, it would be hard to communicate with everyone.
Her lantern tells her that there is a long passageway straight ahead of her and with no other
options, she follows it. It leads to a tiny room and another tunnel and she spies writing over
the entryway. Raising her lantern to light it, Esme reads the words carved into the marble
lintel mounted over the tunnel. "Arrête, c'est ici l'empire de la Mort". She has to clamp a
hand over her mouth to stop the laughter, for it's so ridiculous and melodramatic and
appropriate that she can hardly bear it. Aro would have seen the humor, she thinks briefly,
before shoving aside that destructive memory.
She walks for several long minutes, only able to see the tiny arc of packed earthen tunnel
picked out in the weak flicker of light. More than once she makes up her mind that this is all
a colossal mistake and she's going to turn around and go back home, but each time she
decides to go another fifty feet first. Then she hears it. Muffled voices far up ahead. So they
are down here. She walks on, making no attempt to be quiet or douse her light. Better that
they should know that she's coming than she should burst on them and surprise them down
here.
"Someone's coming!"
"Shit!"
"Run out the east tunnel!"
"Too late. We'll never make it to the surface!"
The murmurs echo in the dark tunnel.
"I'm not with the Nazis!" Esme barks into the dark, to halt their frantic flight.
There is silence ahead of her and she keeps going. Light begins to grey out the tunnel
around her, eventually refining itself into a subtle glow coming from an opening off the left
of the tunnel ahead.
"Who are you?" The voice comes at her again, louder now that she is closer.
"Esme Benoit," she replies, uncertain if it's the right thing to do to use her real name. But
she's in too deep to try to protect herself now so there's no sense in worrying about it.
There is silence again as she closes the distance. When she finally turns out of the tunnel,
into the tiny, low ceilinged earthen room, she squints against the light, even though it's only
one flickering kerosene lantern. She takes a moment to observe the three people she finds
there as they observe her. It's a woman and two men. The woman is probably close to
Esme's age, although far less smartly decked out. She's wearing a pair of baggy tan men's
trousers and an oversized men's jumper. Her dark hair is scraped back off her forehead
and her hands are ink-stained. She might have been attractive in the right clothes and with
her hair done. There is something slightly familiar about her eyes and Esme thinks she
must have been at the house on some night or other. But the woman's expression is
studiously blank as she takes in Esme, so Esme keeps hers blank as well. In this new world
it seems that all the old relationships are dissolved. No one knows anyone.
One of the men is slight, shorter than Esme, in a rumpled tweed suit and small wire-rimmed
glasses. The other man is large, so tall he's stooping slightly in the low room. He's younger,
perhaps in his mid-twenties, and sandy blond. He has the sleeves of his dirty white shirt
rolled up above his elbows and his fingers are stained with ink like the woman's. The small
man steps forward and his body language tells Esme that he's in charge, or at least
considers himself to be.
"Who sent you here?" he barks.
Esme has spent her life teaching herself not to be afraid, to be mistress of herself in every
situation. But she finds that in this moment, anxiety like she hasn't known in years floods
her system. She's a confident woman, able to talk to almost anyone effortlessly, but she
feels out of her depth here and completely unsure of herself. She also realizes suddenly that
she can be killed simply for being where she is at this moment. She swallows hard and
hopes that no one can see her attack of nerves.
"Charlotte Lafitte from Café Flore sent me."
He eyes her skeptically and says nothing. The other two are silent as well. There are papers
scattered everywhere on a rickety table set up between them, and some sort of crude
printing press. Ah, Esme thinks in understanding, this is where they print up those fly-by-
night papers and manifestos.
It's then, while the three of them are examining her closely, that Esme notices the bones.
Bones stacked everywhere, bones made into walls, walls of bones that disappear into
passageways made of bones, that open into other rooms, rooms lined in bones. The bones
are stacked neatly like cord wood, and decorated with more bones, leg bones making X's in
the wall of bones; rows of leering skulls adorning the tops of the bone walls like some vile
picket fence. She's heard about the catacombs, and has been told what's down here, but
now that she's seeing it, she can't quite comprehend the scale of it, the planning, the tidy,
almost artful organization of human remains. It's lurid, morbid, grotesque and utterly
fascinating. Of course they picked this place. Who in their right mind would come down
here alone at night? She must be mad.
She's pulled out of her shameless ogling of the bones by the voice of the small bespectacled
leader. "What do you want?"
Esme takes a deep breath. She hasn't given much thought to what she will say, how she will
present herself. Usually she needs no sort of rehearsal. But now that she's faced with these
people, she finds herself momentarily at a loss and her nerves come back again in full force.
Finally she says, "I may have access to information that you might find useful."
"What sort of information?"
"I can't be certain. But I'm in a position to hear things. Things you might want to know."
"I know what sort of position you're in," the large blond man suddenly interjects. "I know
who you are. You throw parties for the fucking Nazis. She's got the officers in her house
every damned night," he says, this time to the short man.
"Yes, they do come to my house." Esme says calmly, not wanting to let his hostile attitude
get to her. "That's how I hear what I hear."
"We can't trust her," the blond man says to his slight companion, "The Nazis probably sent
her here."
The little man says nothing for a moment, and he doesn't acknowledge his large blond
friend. "What makes you so eager to help?"
Esme just blinks at him in disbelief. What else would she do?
"What else would I do?"
"You could keep your head down and your nose clean, like everyone else in Paris," he says,
eyeing her skeptically.
Esme snorts dismissively. "Once I understood…that's not really an option for me," she
finally finishes tersely.
"Well, Madame Benoit, I'm sure you feel very brave coming down here, but I'm not sure if
it's worth the risk so that we can pick up a few tidbits about which operas the Nazis prefer."
He starts to turn away from her, dismissing her. "I'm sure you can find your way back out
and I trust that you won't reveal what you've seen here?"
The blond man smirks in satisfaction, sneering dismissively at Esme as he turns back to the
woman, who is glancing nervously at Esme. Esme feels her blood begin to boil, all thoughts
of fear and intimidation forgotten.
"The Germans are planning a move into Egypt," Esme barks imperiously, "Do the Allies
know that?"
All three faces in the room pivot to stare at her in unison. No one says anything. Finally the
little man clears his throat.
"How do you know this?"
Esme gives him a bored stare. "I told you, they come to my house, they drink too much, they
talk. I am willing to risk my life to tell you what they say. Now do you want to hear it or
not?"
He blinks at her owlishly from behind his glasses.
"You understand how dangerous this would be, yes?"
"Believe me, I understand."
"If you are caught at this, there will be nothing we can do for you. No one will help you. You
will be entirely on your own, and probably executed as a spy."
"I know all this. I'm well aware of the danger."
"And you still want to proceed?"
Esme meets his eyes for a moment. Finally she says softly, "They must be stopped, mustn't
they? I have to try."
They stare at each other for another long silent moment as he makes up his mind.
"Come to the market at Place Saint Medard in two days at nine o'clock," he finally says.
"Someone will find you and give you more information. I'm sure I don't need to tell you that
you must say nothing of this to anyone."
"I know that. I'll be there."
Esme doesn't wait to see if there is anything else they have to say. She has the piece of
information she needs. She turns on her heel and heads back down the hallway the way she
came. She's certain that she doesn't draw a full breath until she is safely back in her
boudoir an hour later.
*
*
*
Esme shifts the woven basket to her other arm and pretends to examine the wilted carrots
as if she knows what she's looking at and actually cares. Tati looked at her as if she'd lost
her mind this morning when she insisted that she wanted to do the shopping. It was all
Esme could do to keep her face straight and her voice level. She would have to become a
much better liar if this was going to work.
She casts a surreptitious glance to the side from under her lashes, even though she has no
idea what or who she's looking for. That's the point, of course. The contact, when it comes, if
it comes, should be completely beneath anyone's notice. Just two people exchanging an
entirely unremarkable bit of casual conversation at the market. If she can see the contact
coming, then so can everyone else. So she turns her attention back to the carrots and makes
a show of selecting a few.
The carrot-choosing can't be dragged out any longer, so she pays for her small handful and
moves on to a busy stall selling eggs. Eggs are hard to come by and there's a crowd. The idea
of eggs actually piques Esme's interest. An omelet would be divine. She should get some
eggs and have Tati make her one. Now that she thinks on it, Madame Chernot, her elderly
next-door neighbor, probably hasn't had eggs in months. She will get some for her as well.
She manages to make it to the front of the stall and procure the eggs, but while she's been
making her purchase, a crowd has gathered behind her and she can't get back out to the
street. Each time she tries to push through the jostling scrum of people, she gets rudely
shoved. Just as she's about to lose her temper and start snapping, she feels a strong hand
close around her elbow and hears a voice in her ear.
"Here, Madame, allow me to assist you."
She says nothing, only smiles tightly and allows the stranger to help her though the crowd.
She turns her head just enough to catch a glimpse. He's dark-haired, bespectacled, mid-
height, completely unremarkable.
"Thank you," she murmurs as they clear the crowd.
"It's nothing, Madame," he demurs. "Tell me, Madame, do you attend church?"
Esme blinks once and can't think of a reply to his completely ridiculous question.
"Church? Well, I…that is, not for many years…."
"Might I suggest Saint Germain l'auxerrois?"
Esme continues to stare at him, although her brain is beginning to catch up. This is it. Her
contact, the next step.
"I think you'll find that it's quite peaceful and lovely there. The right hand aisle, near the
back in particular, has some remarkable stained glass. Inspiring."
By now she has completely recovered herself and responds in her usual tone, smooth as
silk. "Is that right? I may have to pay a visit soon. Might you be able to tell me a good time to
attend? You know, when it's not too crowded?"
Finally a flicker of emotion crosses his face and the corner of his mouth twitches up. He's
amused by her, by how quickly she's caught on and by how well she plays. She thinks he
seems to relax just a tiny bit.
"Thursday mornings are always quiet there. Around eleven. It's a good time for…quiet
contemplation."
"Thank you," Esme says smoothly, smiling at him. "What a helpful recommendation you've
given me."
He nods his head slightly, "I'm delighted I could assist you, Madame."
The conversation seems at an end and he's about to turn away, but then he pauses. His eyes
meet hers and there's a moment of connection, his face is tight, concerned. "Good luck to
you, Madame," he says quietly.
She looks back, tries to communicate to him her resolution, her commitment to following
this through, but all she can say is, "Thank you."
Then he is gone and Esme is standing alone in the center of the market, her heart pounding
its way out of her chest. Thursday. Two days away.
~*~

Chapter 3

Esme barely sleeps Wednesday night. It doesn't help that she didn't chase the last German
officer out of her house until after two a.m.. Once she finally has quiet, she still doesn't
sleep. She is certain of the course she has set herself on, so she is not terribly afraid for
herself. She only hopes that the information she is able to procure will be worth the risks
others will be taking to get it from her.
Thursday morning, Esme dresses carefully. It has been years since she has stepped foot in a
church. She can't hope to fit in, but she hopes at least not to draw undue attention to
herself. The church the gentleman mentioned at the market is nowhere near her house. It
is, in fact, on the Right Bank, quite some way away. She will have to come up with a
believable story as to why she's now visiting a church so far from her house when she's
never stepped foot in the neighborhood one.
The church, Saint Germain l'auxerrois, is near the Louvre, and very old. Esme passes
through the stone porch carved with hard-faced saints and enters the cool, dim church. She
stands just inside the entrance, at the head of the nave, nervously casting her eyes around
the pews. There is hardly anybody here. A few old women scattered across the pews near
the front, bowed heads covered in lace shawls, withered hands wrapped in rosaries as they
kneel and pray. They remind her of the old women who walked to the church every
morning in her village in the Loire Valley when she was young, and she wonders absently
what they pray about every day. What can possibly happen in their daily lives that requires
the constant intervention of the Holy Spirit?
There is a young priest puttering around up on the altar, straightening things. There is no
one else. She looks for the man from the market, but quickly realizes that he won't be the
one she meets today. In fact, she'll probably never see him again. She's quite certain that
none of the pious old women are supposed to be her contact, and neither is the awkward
young priest. Then she remembers what the dark-haired man from the market told her.
The aisle on the right. Some exceptionally fine stained glass. Perhaps she is supposed to
wait there and someone will come to her.
She crosses to the right and her heels make a hollow ringing on the stone floor. One of the
old women looks back over her shoulder towards Esme, and she imagines the old woman's
eyes are hard and judgmental. She resists the urge to duck her head; no pious old woman
will make her feel intimidated. She just moves to the side pews and chooses one at random,
perhaps a dozen rows from the back of the church.
She sits midway down the pew and glances around. There is no one on this side of the
church and because of the rows of columns separating the aisle from the nave, she can't see
any of the old women there. There are no electric lights, of course, only a dull, filtered blue
light struggling to make it through the stained-glass windows. The church has certainly
seen better days. When she settled in her pew her movements disturbed a pair of pigeons
who had been roosting over a window in a side altar. They fly across the church, close to the
vaulted ceiling, settling on the far side. The stained glass is lovely, though, she thinks,
looking around. The altar to her left has three windows, each filled with scenes from the life
of Christ. She loses herself for a long time puzzling out the stories depicted, trying to figure
out who is meant to be Mary and who Mary Magdalene in the scene of the crucifixion.
She's lost in the pictures, in the glowing colored shapes and their blank glass faces utterly
devoid of personality, when she hears a rustle of movement behind her and to her left. She
begins to turn her head to look when a whispered voice halts her.
"Don't look."
She doesn't, she keeps her head facing forward, her eyes on her lap.
"I believe you're here to talk to me," the voice comes again, not quite a whisper this time,
but probably not audible to anyone sitting more than a few feet away.
"I suppose I am," Esme says softly. The urge to look, to see the face attached to the voice, is
strong, but she resists. It goes against all her instincts. She always looks people fully in the
face, meets their eyes with hers, when she speaks to them. It's why people connect with her
so easily. She can feel unease skitter down her spine speaking to this disembodied voice.
It's a man, that's all she can tell. That, and he's English. Rather proper, too, judging from the
accent, although his French is impeccable.
"What's your name?" she asks.
There is a long pause. "It's better if I don't tell you."
Esme snorts softly. "You think I would betray you? Do you not realize how much of a risk I
am taking being here?"
"I don't want to know yours either," he says quickly. "It's safer for both of us that way."
"You don't know my name?"
"No, I was told only that there would be someone at this spot, at this time."
Esme is somewhat mollified by that. And he has a point. Again, she hates feeling so out of
her depth. She makes a terrible spy.
"So, I understand you might have some information for me?"
"I have a great many visitors… soldiers. They talk. They say things they shouldn't."
"And you're willing to come here and tell me what you hear?"
Esme nods and fixes her eyes on a bright spot of red in a window straight ahead, towards
the front of the church, to avoid looking back.
"Come every week at this time. Sit here."
"What if there's nothing to tell one week?"
"Come anyway. It's too dangerous to try to make contact. Make it a standing date."
Esme smirks in spite of herself. She simply can't resist the opportunity to flirt. It's too
ingrained in her, and he's just made it too easy. "A date? What a peculiar idea you have for a
date, monsieur. The pigeons roosting in the corners add such a romantic touch."
She thinks she hears him chuckle, but it's so soft she can't be sure.
"You'll come every week then?" he finally says.
"Yes, every week."
There is another long pause, charged with something new. Not the anxiety surrounding
their circumstances. Something else. Esme again fights the urge to turn and look at his eyes.
"What are you reading?" he finally asks.
Esme is startled by the question and looks down at the book she's been clutching, forgotten,
in her lap.
"Oh... 'Dracula'."
He clears his throat lightly behind her, "Excuse me, did you say 'Dracula'?"
"Yes, I couldn't sleep last night, so I started re-reading it."
"That's a rather peculiar choice under the circumstances, don't you think?"
Esme shrugs, "Why so?"
"Well, it's so dark and full of horror and monsters. I would think, with all the monsters
you're facing in real life, that you'd want to escape all that."
Esme smiles a little at his simple view of things, the notion that any novel could take her
away from the horror she's found herself mired in.
"Ah, yes, but he's such a quaint little monster, don't you think?"
"Quaint?" She can hear the bafflement in his voice.
"Yes, quaint. All the biting and blood. So silly really, compared to the evil real mortal men
seem to be capable of. It's all so sublimely gothic. Dark castles and wolves at the door. No,
the truly frightening things seem to be happening on the streets of Europe in broad
daylight. This monster," she taps the cover of the book lightly with one gloved finger, "does
not frighten me. And at the end of the day when I tire of him, I can close the book and he
ceases to exist. I can't get away from the real monsters quite so easily."
"Hmm," he mumbles behind her. "I suppose I see your point."
Esme sighs lightly, and shrugs again, "Besides, it's all just about sex anyway. Those poor
girls, wasting away, just needing to be good and ravaged."
She hears a strangled choking sound behind her as he tries unsuccessfully to clear his
throat.
"Oh, dear. I forgot you were English. And now I've shocked you, haven't I?"
"N-no, not at all. I assure you."
Esme laughs softly. "Oh, yes I have. I see I'll have to watch myself with you, Monsieur….This
really won't do. I have to call you something."
"Why? There's just the two of us here."
"But I need to call you something, even if it's only in my head. And you need to call me
something. It doesn't have to have anything to do with who we really are."
He's silent behind her for a moment. "Very well, then. I shall call you Mrs. Platt."
Esme can't resist turning her head slightly towards him in astonishment, although she
keeps her eyes averted. "Exactly what about me speaks of a Mrs. Platt to you?"
"Nothing, really," he sounds a bit uncomfortable, "It's just the name of a friend of my
mother's. It popped into my head. It's as good as any other name."
Esme shakes her head slightly. "Very well, Mrs. Platt it is. And what should I call you?"
She casts her eyes around the church for inspiration, but ultimately decides that all the
ecclesiastical references would wear on her. Her eyes fall to the book in her lap. "How
about Mr. Stoker?"
She can't see his face, but she imagines that she can hear the smile in his voice, "Mr. Stoker."
"Yes, the man who tames the monsters," she murmurs.
"Well, I'm trying to, anyway. We're all trying."
They sit in silence another moment.
"I'll see you next week, then, Mrs. Platt."
"I look forward to it, Mr. Stoker."
"You should leave first. Don't acknowledge me as you go."
She nods tightly and stands to leave. She won't acknowledge him, but she has to face his
direction to get out of the pew and she's desperate to get a glimpse of his face. She takes just
a moment to tug one of her gloves into place and she touches her hat lightly, before she
turns.
She begins to move towards the aisle and lets her eyes drop momentarily to his face, on her
left. She nearly stops moving altogether. He's as handsome as a matinee idol. Really, he's
almost ridiculously good-looking, with blonde hair swept off of his face in waves and high,
patrician cheekbones. His lips are sensual and she feels sure she's seen their like in one of
the old masters once.
But it's his eyes that rivet her. Because he's apparently unable to resist the temptation to
look at her face as well and he's looked up to meet her gaze. They are blue; bright, light
blue. With his blonde hair and Nordic features, he should look aloof and cold. However his
eyes are anything but cold. They pin her to her spot, and they are so warm, full of concern
and interest and life. She feels like he's seen into the very secret corners of her with one
glance. With difficulty, she pulls her eyes away, remembering his admonition not to
acknowledge his presence, and she doesn't want to do anything to endanger him. Cutting
her eyes back to the end of the pew, she moves purposefully out of the aisle and into the
nave. She doesn't look right or left, and she doesn't stop until she's a full block away. She
finally pauses at a corner, clutching a wrought-iron fence with one hand to steady herself,
overwhelmed by what she's just done, what she will continue to do, and overwhelmed by
his kind blue eyes.
*
*
*
It's a Saturday when he first comes. She's heard his name already, of course. He's one of the
Nazi's new top men in Paris, everybody has heard of him. But she doesn't recognize him
when she opens the door to find him standing on her front step in the company of another
officer she knows.
Esme's first thought is that he looks like Mr. Stoker. Her second thought is that he looks
nothing like Mr. Stoker. Certainly at first glance, they both have blonde hair, high
cheekbones, striking Nordic features, and blue eyes. But the resemblance wears thin after
just a moment. Where Mr. Stoker's eyes are intense and warm, his whole face exuding
compassion and concern, this Nazi officer at her door is a handsome face in a crisp uniform
and nothing more. He is smiling as she opens the door, but it does not reach his eyes. Every
expression seems only painted on the surface. There is no hint of the man or the passion
underneath.
He's accompanied by Lieutenant Colonel Schiffer, who has visited before. Esme is quite
familiar with him. He's jovial and lazy, happy to fritter away the war in Paris. He's said
absolutely nothing of interest in all the nights he's come to the house.
"Madame Benoit!" Lieutenant Schiffer cries as Tati opens the door and Esme steps forward
to greet them. "May I introduce to you General der Infanterie Hans Dekker? General
Dekker, may I present Madame Esme Benoit?"
Esme smiles and nods her head at the new arrival.
"General Dekker has just arrived from Berlin, Esme, to head up some things here in Paris,"
Schiffer says.
This is where she must flatter him, Esme decides. "Of course, Lieutenant. I've heard all
about General der Infanterie Dekker. I've only been wondering why you took so long to
bring him to meet me."
The Lieutenant laughs a little too loudly. "I've told him all about you, Esme! I told him,
there's no place else to be in Paris! You see?"
Esme smiles indulgently at him before directing her attention back to the General. His eyes
have never left her and she can read clearly what she sees there. He wants her, of course.
This is not much of a surprise to her. But as she steps back and ushers them into the house,
as they stand in the foyer and Tati receives their coats and hats, she notes his ice blue eyes
darting quickly about the room. He's making an inventory, she thinks, of every person here
that he knows and with whom they are speaking. His sharp, attentive eyes make her wary.
He's not stupid. A man like Lieutenant Schiffer is easy to manage. A few bland questions, a
few absent smiles, and he is content, he feels sufficiently looked after and flattered.
This General Dekker will take a good deal more to manage. He notices far more. He is much
more perceptive. She will have to be constantly on her guard in his presence. The though of
that makes her wary, but the prize makes her eager. If she can succeed, if she can make this
man relax here, if she can loosen his tongue, the secrets he might reveal could be
invaluable. Such a man as this will not easily make a careless mistake, so it will take some
doing. Esme hopes she's up to this challenge.
"General," she says, her voice at its smoothest, all honeyed seduction, "Can I get you a
drink? Please, do tell me what you like."
His sharp, light eyes snap back to her. He does not miss the implied invitation in her tone.
His eyes dance down her figure quickly before returning to her face. Esme has to swallow
hard against her revulsion, keeping her smile in place and her eyes locked on his.
"Brandy," he says finally. "If you have it."
Esme inclines her head slightly, "Of course. Tati? The Armagnac for the General, please."
"You're a fortunate woman to have brandy at this time," he says. "It's hard to come by."
Esme shrugs absently. "I have so many generous friends."
"I see that," he returns. "All the officers can talk about are your parties, Madame Benoit."
"Esme, please."
His lips thin in a tiny smile. "Esme, then."
"I love to entertain," she says lightly, trying to appear every inch the shallow socialite he's
already assumed her to be. "I'm simply not happy unless my house is full! And with so many
delightful officers in Paris…well, we are never short of lively company here."
"I'm happy to hear it. Being stationed far from home often leaves one wishing for the
comforts of a truly civilized society. If what the officers tell me is true, there is no shortage
of that here."
"Yes, I think you will find Paris an exciting city, and I like to think we collect the very best of
the city here."
"Indeed, it seems one can never want for something to do in Paris," the General says. His
sharp eyes have yet to leave hers, and Esme is beginning to feel slightly exposed under his
gaze, but she does not let her discomfort show.
"And as your officers will tell you, the heart of Paris lies here in my house. Here, you will
never be bored."
He pauses and smiles at her, a tight, hard expression utterly devoid of warmth. "I am quite
sure of that, Madame…Esme."
She makes herself smile warmly at his familiar use of her name before gesturing towards
the parlor and asking him to join the guests already there. He offers her his arm in an odd,
formal gesture. Esme slips her hand into his elbow and allows him to lead her into the
parlor at his side.
~*~

Chapter 4

June, 1942
Esme is running late. She hurries down the stairs in uncharacteristic haste. For any other
appointment, she wouldn't rush. She would arrive on her own schedule and her smile
would be enough to dispel any ill feelings her tardiness engendered. But for this, for him,
she doesn't ever want to be late.
She pulls on her gloves as she crosses through the kitchen towards the front of the house,
and encounters Tati just coming in from the market.
"Oh," Tati cries, startled at Esme's sudden appearance in the kitchen. "I thought you'd
gone."
Tati is a tiny thing, young and pale with limp light brown hair and huge pale blue eyes. She
isn't particularly bright, Esme has found, but she's good-natured, efficient, and loyal, and
she ran away from a small village in the south of France to try her luck in Paris. For that
reason alone, Esme is inclined to like her.
"Not quite. I'm going now," Esme says absently, making to move past Tati towards the door.
Tati watches her for just a moment with her huge, limpid eyes before she impulsively blurts
out, "Be careful, Madame!"
Esme turns on her heel slowly to look at Tati, for there's something in the tone of her voice
that makes Esme think Tati knows exactly what she's up to. Tati is merely looking at her,
blinking rapidly. Tati does know. Esme is right about her; she is not bright. But she is
perceptive. And she knows Madame Benoit inside and out. She has been able, just from
sensing the change in atmosphere around Madame, to tell that something monumental is
taking place. She may not grasp all of the finer details, or know that Madame is passing
information; nothing as specific as that. But she knows that Nazis come to the house every
night. She can tell that, although Madame gives them the same smile she would give to any
guest in her home, she secretly detests them. Tati isn't sure what it all means. But she has
sensed that Madame is playing at a dangerous game, and Tati would lay down her life to
protect Madame.
Esme looks carefully at Tati, but the girl gives nothing away. Once again, Esme is at a loss as
to how one proceeds in these situations. She hasn't been a spy long enough to know the
protocol. Once someone has guessed at what you're about, do you acknowledge it or deny
until your dying breath? Esme chooses a third path; avoid the issue altogether.
"Thank you, Tati. I'll be home in time for dinner. General Dekker is coming," she says, cool
and even.
Tati makes no response, and Esme leaves without looking at her again. By the time she's
reached the Pont Neuf, Esme has to stop for a moment and lean on the stone wall while she
gets herself back in hand. Tati knows, or has guessed that something's going on. It's hardly
surprising; the girl lives in her house. Esme's instincts tell her that she can trust Tati
completely, but are instincts enough? Can anyone really be trusted in times such as these?
Rather than feeling panic at the thought of someone else knowing, Esme feels an odd sense
of relief, as if she doesn't have to bear the weight of the secret alone, even if Tati doesn't
necessarily know the details and they can't ever allude to it. And, she reasons, if Tati knows
and planned to betray her, she's had several weeks at this point to do it. Esme reasons that
Tati, as her instincts insist she is, must be trustworthy. With a sigh, Esme realizes that she
has no choice but to trust her at this point anyway.
Esme is still standing on the bridge when a man crosses in front of her, head bowed, hat
brim pulled low. He's completely unremarkable except for one glaring detail: the yellow
felt six-pointed star crudely stitched to his breast pocket. Esme can hardly believe what
she's seeing. She knew the Germans had been forcing the Jews in their country to wear
them for quite some time. Last week, there was word that it was now law here in France,
too, but she never believed they'd really make them do it. Yet here is this man, a
Frenchman, trying to keep his gaze averted from the world, forced to wear that hateful
signifier. Esme is revolted and enraged with absolutely no outlet for it anywhere. She can't
speak to him to offer sympathy, she can't complain to other pedestrians loitering nearby.
To complain or protest would only bring the authorities down on her, which would help no
one and keep her from her new mission.
Her head snaps up as she realizes she does have an outlet for her anger, and he's waiting
for her at St. Germain l'auxerrois. She continues on across the bridge at a quicker pace,
nearly desperate to be in her pew again, whispering her secrets to his waiting ears.
He's not there when she arrives; he never is. But he always slips into the pew behind her
and to her left within minutes of her arrival, so she's surmised that he's there somewhere
and observing, waiting for her to get settled before he sits. She likes knowing that he's
watching her walk in.
Esme slides into the pew she now thinks of as hers and settles in to wait. The scene has
become familiar in just the few weeks they've been doing this. The same scattering of pious
old women on their knees up front, as a priest busies himself tidying the altar. The faces
might change a little, but the tableau is always the same. No one ever chooses to sit in this
corner of the church. No one sits in this entire aisle, so they are always completely alone;
there is never anyone to observe them. She supposes that's why it was chosen.
The routine is always the same. Every Thursday, just like now, Esme enters and sits and
looks at the windows. Sometimes she brings a book, like she did the first day, and reads
while she waits. Then her head is bowed like she's praying, which she feels might make her
blend in more. Every Thursday, like now, her ears begin to strain, listening for any clue that
he's approaching; the scuff of a shoe on the stone floor, the rustle of fabric. Every Thursday,
by the time she hears it, she's so tense from waiting that the first tiny noise makes her
jump. Every Thursday, Esme chides herself for being so eager and jumpy, and she calms
herself back down as he slides into the pew behind her. After a few moments he will clear
his throat, which is her cue to start talking, if there's anything to say. Esme talks, telling him
every snippet of conversation she can remember, every name she hears, every place
mentioned.
Today is no different. Her ears are straining so hard listening for his approach that when
she finally hears it, it makes her heart skip a beat in a combination of anxiety and
excitement. She closes her eyes and takes a few calming breaths as she listens to him slide
into his place behind her. She's only seen his face twice. Once, the first time they met, and
once a couple of weeks ago, when he suggested that she leave first, just to mix things up. But
she can draw up every tiny detail in her mind, and she does so now, trying to imagine his
expression, the set of his mouth, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, as he settles into
place.
Imagining his face is lovely, but the next part is what Esme is longing for: hearing his voice.
He clears his throat. Some days, he also greets her; other days, all she hears is the throat-
clearing. She pauses for just a moment to see if he'll say something today. At first she thinks
that's all he'll do today, but then, his low voice, almost a whisper, reaches her ears.
"How are you today, Mrs. Platt?"
A ridiculous grin overtakes her face at his use of her teasing nickname. That name seemed
almost insulting when he first said it, but now she adores it, and she treasures the rare
occasions when he says it.
"I'm well, thank you, Mr. Stoker. And you?"
"Well enough. Anything to tell this week?"
And just like that, it's on to business. Esme never gets more than that out of him and doesn't
really expect to. Although she wishes he would talk to her more, and about more personal
subjects, she knows he can't, and knows she shouldn't push him. Just having him here to
listen to her makes her feel less hopelessly alone, and that has to suffice. So she talks,
recounting her evenings to him, who was there, who talked to whom, who said what. The
German officers, Esme has found, like to gossip like schoolgirls, and their ambition makes
them catty. They constantly analyze their fellow officers' appointments and promotions,
looking for any hint of favoritism or slights. Esme commiserates and sympathizes and
agrees with them, while she secretly makes mental notes about who has been sent where
and how many men he now commands.
When she's exhausted her week for details, she sits back a bit in her pew, fiddling with the
clasp on her handbag.
"Is there anything else you can think of?" he prompts her softly. She wonders if she's
imagining that he seems reluctant to end their meeting, too.
"I think my housekeeper suspects," she says. "Not meeting you, but…something."
He's silent for a long moment. "Do you trust her?"
"I have to, don't I?"
"I suppose so," he says with a sigh. "Anything else?"
"They use words I don't understand sometimes. I speak German, of course, but there are
words, military terms, I think, that I don't know."
"Of course. You wouldn't know the vocabulary," he says pensively.
"Perhaps there's a book…?"
"No, nothing that could be found accidentally. I'll teach you. Next week I'll have some terms
for you to memorize."
"Alright," she says softly, but inside she's delighted because that means he'll speak, they'll
speak. "Is that all?"
He's quiet and she can sense he's thinking about something, perhaps weighing how to say it.
"General der Infanterie Dekker…"
"Yes?"
"He comes often?"
Now it was Esme's turn to pause, just long enough to wonder why he was asking. Was it for
the cause or for himself?
"Most nights, yes."
Another long pause from him.
"He's…Being in his position, he's privy to a great deal of information."
"Yes, I sensed that."
"If you could…" He begins, but stops.
"What?"
"I can't ask you to. It's wrong." She might be imagining it, but he sounds upset.
"Yes, you can. What is it?"
He sighs heavily before he continues, "If you can get close to him…"
"I already am," she says shortly, and hopes he will leave it at that. The idea of discussing her
flirtations with Dekker with him makes her feel sick. He says nothing, though and now she
thinks his deafening silence might be worse.
Finally, he says, "Has he said why they sent him to Paris? Why him, specifically? Do you
know his assignment?"
"He said he was here to handle an important project."
"A project?"
"No, wait…that wasn't the word he used. A shipment. No, an export. An important export. He
was brought in to oversee it."
"Hmm."
"What does it mean? Does it help?"
He sighs. "I have no idea what it means. I don't know if it's important. I don't know if it will
help at all. Chances are, we'll never know if any of this is helpful. Do you want to stop?"
Esme is silent. It's the most emotion he's ever shown. He sounds tired, a little angry. And at
the end…desperate?
"No. I don't want to stop."
"You should go," he finally says, his voice back to its impassive whisper. "We've stayed too
long as it is."
Esme stands abruptly and slides out of the pew. She allows herself one quick glance at his
face as she passes. His head is bowed, he's staring at his hands clasped in his lap. He doesn't
look up at her.
*
*
*
Mid-July, 1942
"Now in my day, a woman knew how to make her own cheese," Madame Chernot intones,
wagging one shriveled finger in the air to emphasize her point. "But these days, you young
girls go out in the world barely able to boil water!"
Esme smiles warmly at her and Madame Chernot's perception of her as a "young girl" when
she's nothing of the sort. But Esme supposes that all women seem young to Madame
Chernot. Every window in the house is thrown open, but no hint of a breeze makes it into
the kitchen to alleviate the stifling heat that's descended on Paris. Esme idly fans herself
with an old silk fan she got as a gift years ago, watching Madame Chernot busy herself at the
sink.
Madame Chernot is tying up bundles of herbs with twine and hanging them in Esme's
kitchen window. She's is doing it with the idea that Esme will use the dried herbs when she
cooks, which Esme finds rather laughable. However, she does enjoy the scent and the way
they look hanging there.
"Madame Chernot, please don't trouble yourself with that. Come and sit and have a coffee.
Maybe some pastry?" Esme asks her, feeling bad that this withered and ancient old woman
exerts herself on Esme's account, especially in this oppressive heat.
"Bah! No trouble! And who's to look after you if I don't, Mademoiselle? That silly young
housekeeper of yours?"
Esme doesn't bother to correct the "Mademoiselle", because Madame Chernot never
remembers when she does. She smiles fondly at the old woman busily working at her sink,
and wonders how her life might have turned out if she'd had a woman like this for a
mother. Her own mother was nothing like this, all hard edges and ruthless, small-town
ambition. She would claw her way up the grubby little social order of their tiny Southern
village by any means necessary, even if it meant sacrificing her own daughter to do it. The
bitterness Esme felt towards her is long gone; all that's left now is a sort of wistful curiosity
for the woman she might have grown into if her start in life had been different, if a woman
like this had loved her then.
But, she thinks, she has Madame Chernot now, and for all the misery of her early years,
Esme is proud of who she's grown into. She's also proud of how she's choosing to finish her
days. Because Esme is sure that the only way her work with the Resistance will end is with
her discovery and death. She only hopes to keep it going for as long as possible, to pass as
much information as she can before she's found out. And if her life has to end too soon,
she's happy that it will be like this.
"Alright, Mademoiselle," Madame Chernot says with a hefty sigh, turning from the sink, "all
done for now. Pleas try to use those, now, and cook yourself something. You're too thin."
"You worry about me too much," Esme smiles.
Madame Chernot stops in front of her and lays her wrinkled little hand across Esme's still-
smooth cheek. Her eyes are nearly hidden in the wrinkles of her face, but they are bright
and perceptive as she looks into Esme's face.
"I have good reason to worry about you. Don't I, my dear?"
Esme can only stare back wordlessly, certain that, like Tati, Madame Chernot has guessed
what she is up to. She must be the worst spy in the world if her intentions are so clear on
her face. But Madame Chernot just smiles and pats her cheek. "You take care, my dear. And
stay cool in this heat! It's sent from the devil himself, I think!"
Then she is shuffling towards the door, her basket slung over her arm again as she heads
back to her little house next door.
No sooner does the door close behind her and Esme turns back to making the coffee, than
the door slams back open and Tati throws herself inside. Her large pale eyes are rimmed
with red. Her face is flushed and mottled, her hair unkempt. She's drawing ragged,
stuttering breaths, nearly choking on her sobs.
"Tati! What is it? What's happened to you?"
Esme is across the room, gripping Tati by the arms in moments, trying to get the girl to calm
down and look at her. Tati is sobbing so hard that it takes her a moment to get any words
out at all.
"Oh, Madame. The Velo d'Hiver!"
Esme's brows draw together in confusion, she's unable to think of anything about a sports
arena that would drive Tati to this state.
"The Velo d'Hiver? Where they have the bicycle races? What about it?"
Tati takes a huge shaking breath and it seems to be enough to allow her to speak, which she
does in short, gasping snippets, nearly unintelligible.
"After the market, and the shopping…I met Iréne to walk along the Quai….We met her
friend, Raoul, and he told us…Oh! He told us what's happening there…what they're doing…"
Tati's eyes well with fresh tears, and she shakes her head hard, nearly frantic.
"Tati! Tell me! What's happened?"
"That's where they're taking them," she finally whispers hoarsely.
"Taking who?"
"The Jews. The police…they've been taking them from their homes and they're all there, in
the Velo d'Hiver."
"They're arresting them again? The agitators?"
"No!" Tati nearly shrieks this word. "Not agitators this time! Families, Madame! Whole
families! Dragging them out in the middle of the night! Children, too! There are children in
there!"
Esme closes her eyes and shakes her head, trying to make sense of Tati's broken
information. When she speaks again, she struggles to keep her voice calm and even. "So
they're taking these families to the Velo d'Hiver. What are they doing there? What's
happening?"
Tati nearly descends into sobs again, but Esme tightens her grip on the girl, trying to keep
her focused.
"Thousands, Madame. Raoul said fifteen thousand. All stuffed inside. There is no water and
no doctors. They've been there for days, Madame. And Raoul says they're going to…"
"What? What does he say? What are they doing with them?"
Tati shakes her head hard and fights back the weeping, "He says they're bringing in trains.
To take them to those camps."
Esme feels the chill, the same, sadly familiar chill, course through her. The one she feels
whenever she hears some fresh piece of horror that defies belief. Fifteen thousand people
in the Velo d'Hiver, in this heat, with no water. Children, too. All of them about to be
shipped out on cattle cars to God knows where. It's happening now, at this very moment on
the other side of Paris, as she stands helplessly in her quiet kitchen with a sobbing Tati in
her arms.
*
*
*
Later that night, as Esme glides from room to room, smiling softly at her guests, making
sure glasses are filled and music is playing, she forces every thought of Velo d'Hiver from
her head. She can't…she cannot keep up this charade and do what must be done if she
allows the horror in. She separates, and sends the self she knows far away. The self she
knows, the real Esme, would have fled the house, run straight to the Velodrome, beat on the
walls, screamed at the guards, demanded attention, demanded results until she got them or
got herself hauled away and imprisoned, too. But that Esme has no place here. She can't do
what needs to be done with that woman screaming her outrage and horror in her ears, so
she packs her off and sends her away. All that's left is the shiny glittering shell of herself,
smiling and talking and flirting just as she always has.
Tati has recovered enough to resume her position by the door, and it's this night that
proves to Esme exactly where Tati's loyalties lie. Tati hates them, every bit as much as Esme
does. But she will play her own role just as seamlessly as Esme does, knowing that they are
coming here for a good reason.
And so Tati is there as always to answer the door when General der Infanterie Dekker
arrives. She would offer to take his coat, but the heat remains oppressive and no one is
wearing a coat. Instead, she takes his hat as Esme steps forward to greet him.
"General Dekker! How delightful! I was just remarking that I hoped we'd see you before the
night was out. And now here you are."
"Madame Benoit. You know I've told you to call me Hans," his pale blue eyes are glittering,
and his smile tight and feline as he sizes her up.
Esme inclines her head with a smile. "Hans. Of course. What's kept you so late tonight,
Hans?"
"Oh, details. Many details to wrap up on my project."
"Can I get you a drink?"
"Please."
Esme motions him to follow her to the parlor, which he does. He cocks his head a bit as they
leave the entryway, as if he's listening to the music playing softly in the background.
"Wagner?" he asks.
Esme smiles and inclines her head. "So many of the younger officers like it. I play it for
them."
Hans gives her a sly, conspiratorial smile. "I know he's a Party favorite, but personally I
prefer Puccini. Wagner just doesn't stir my soul in the same way. Do you know what I
mean?"
Esme can only stare at him, because she knows exactly what he means. The idea that Hans
Dekker has had his soul stirred by Puccini is surprising to her, almost shocking.
"I prefer Puccini, too," she finally murmurs.
"I knew you would. You know I thought of you today," he says, still looking intently at her.
"Really?"
"Yes, I was passing by the Quai d'Orsay and saw a painter down there painting the water.
The colors he was using, all orange and pink and firey….I don't know," he says with a faint
smile and a shrug. "They made me think of you."
"Oh, that's so…"
"And it was lovely, of course," he continues. "Just like you."
"You flatter me, Hans."
"It's hardly flattery when it's the truth, Esme."
"So your project is finishing then?" Esme strives to inject her voice with a note of sadness as
she tries to re-direct him. "You'll be leaving us soon?"
Hans smiles slowly at her. "Ah, no. The first phase, you might say, is wrapping up. But it's
only the start of the project. I'll be here for some time to oversee it."
"I'm so delighted to hear that, Hans."
Esme leans back against the bar as she hands him his drink- brandy. She no longer needs to
ask what he'd like. She reaches into a silver filigree box on the bar to retrieve a cigarette.
Hans quickly pulls his matches from his pocket and lights one for her. Esme bends to light
her cigarette, her hand wrapping around his to hold it steady, their heads close together.
Once lit, Esme straightens and exhales, smiling slowly at Hans through the smoke. Hans
never takes his pale, sharp eyes from her face as he steps closer and leans on the bar next
to her, his hip just a few inches from hers.
"I'm delighted, too. I would hate to leave…Paris so soon."
"Well, it seems your project may keep you here for some time."
"Yes, I believe so. There is much to accomplish, and we've only just begun."
His tone is distracted and his eyes are averted, skimming over Esme's neck, exposed where
she's worn her hair up, and her bare shoulders. He doesn't see the look of horror wash
through her eyes momentarily as the pieces slot into place in her mind.
Exports.
He said he came to Paris to oversee an important export.
Only the first of many.
~*~

Chapter 5

Late July, 1942

Dead Christians. Esme's eyes keep flitting around the church, but everywhere she looks
there are nothing but dead Christians. Exquisite and mystical in their suffering, broken up
into nearly abstract, glowing, colored shapes. Their faces are stretched long with sorrow,
their shoulders stooped under the weight of their martyrdom. These pictures in glass have
inspired countless generations of Parisians to grind their knees to dust on this stone floor
praying for forgiveness and salvation, but today, they only enrage Esme. All that suffering
and redemption, so neatly pressed flat and etched into glass. All those pious Christians with
their eyes abjectly turned to heaven, awaiting salvation, praying that the hand of God might
reach down and lift them out of their misery. The hand of God….
Esme lets out an uncharacteristically unladylike snort of disgust. It echoes faintly in the
dusty blue stillness of the church. The sound doesn't reach the pious old women praying up
front. It does, however, reach the ears of Mr. Stoker, who is slipping up the aisle behind
Esme, as silently as possible. He thinks he can feel her unhappiness from twenty feet away,
which is a ridiculous thought, he knows. He doesn't make a sound until he's seated in the
pew behind her and to her left, his usual spot. He can tell that she's aware of his presence
though, just from the nearly imperceptible shift in her posture.
He clears his throat. This is their signal that they are ready to begin.
Most days Esme starts talking right away, as soon as she knows he's there, almost as if she's
been holding in the words for him all week and they won't stay in any longer. Today,
though, she keeps her eyes forward and she remains silent.
Finally he starts instead. "Is there anything to tell this week?"
When she answers, her voice is clipped and far away, completely devoid of emotion.
"Dekker is a monster. They want to take over the world. They rounded up fifteen thousand
Parisians this week and starved them for days before they shipped them out in cattle cars
to who knows where. Other than that? No, nothing new."
He says nothing for a long time, and neither does she. But speaking freely for the first time
in a week has broken something open in Esme. A crack appears in her carefully fortified
wall, and she's now struggling with everything she's got not to break down into wrenching,
screaming sobs at all that's happened in the past few days.
He sighs and shifts. Esme swallows hard against the painful lump in her throat and swipes
angrily at her eyes. She nearly smudges her eye makeup across the fingertips of her light
ivory cotton gloves. With a disgusted sigh, she strips them off and stuffs them in her bag.
"You've heard about Velo d'Hiver, then?" he finally whispers.
Esme lets out one short, sharp laugh, utterly devoid of humor. "Yes. I think it's safe to say
that all of Paris heard about Velo d'Hiver. I suppose there's that. No one can deny now what
they're up to."
"That's true."
Esme wants to ask him a question, but it breaches their protocol. She's not to ask for
information, he's not to give it. It's safer for everyone involved that way. But she can't help
it. Trapped as she is in the lair of the Beast itself, she can't get any information at all. At
least not that kind of information.
"Do you know where they sent them?"
He says nothing and for a moment she thinks he won't, that he'll keep up this wall of
detachment. When he does speak, his voice is lower, perhaps closer, like he's shifted over
towards her.
"No. Well, not exactly. But it isn't hard to guess."
"Camps? Like Drancy?"
"Worse than Drancy. Not in France."
Esme squeezes her eyes shut against the bitter knowledge and she's almost sorry she
asked. Maybe ignorance was better. No, this understanding of the brutal facts is what keeps
her going. But still…at times like this, it threatens to drown her.
"How do you manage?" she whispers.
"Manage?"
"Knowing the truth. How bad it is…how do you keep it from eating you alive?"
"Well, I focus on the work we're doing. I hope that it does some good in some way. And for
those I can't save….I hope they find some peace, even if it's not in this world." There's a
pause before what comes next, as if he's uncertain if he should say it. When he does, his
voice is soft, laced with the compassion she remembers seeing in his face the first day they
met. "Perhaps there is some comfort to be found in that thought for you as well."
Esme struggles to restrain her scoff of disbelief, "Are you talking about God?"
"Well, I suppose so, in a way."
"Really? You can sit there and speak of God to me in the face of what has happened here this
week?" She can't help it, and she can't restrain herself. She flings a hand at the saints in
stained glass all around them. "Where was God when they were locking women and babies
in that place for days with no water? Where was God when they packed them onto the
trains? Is God taking care of them now? If so, he has a curious way of showing his love, your
God."
"I think we mean different things when we speak of God."
"This is not your God?" she points a finger towards the altar of the church.
"I don't think of it quite so literally."
"But you do believe?"
"Yes," he says with absolute conviction.
"But how can you?" Esme breathes. "In the face of everything you've seen, knowing the evil
that men are capable of, how can you believe?"
He is quiet for a moment and she hears him shift again. When he speaks, his voice is hushed
but urgent. "God is no magician in the sky who comes to cure our ills."
"What, then?"
"Would you believe me if I said that I see the evidence of God in you?"
"Me?"
"Yes, you. You come here every week for the sake of people you will never know, uncertain
whether or not what you do will ever be of any aid to them at all. And yet you still do it. You
risk your life to do it. That speaks of God to me. Yes, these times we're living in have proved
that men are capable of inconceivable evil. But when ordinary people can be moved to do
such extraordinary things in the face of that evil, isn't that God, some kind of God, at work in
all of us? I have to believe that, or there really would be no point to any of this."
Esme can say nothing. He's broken through her carefully constructed walls and she's
weeping silently.
"Please don't cry," he murmurs.
"I don't know if I'm strong enough for this, even with the help of your God," she whispers,
giving voice to her darkest fears in this tiny little moment she's carved out with him.
"You are. You've already proven your strength."
"But to keep going…to face them every day…when there is no one I can ever speak the truth
to."
"You have me. You can always speak the truth to me."
"Do I have you?"
"Yes, you do."
Never has she wanted so badly to turn and look him in the eye, to reach out and touch him
in some way. But they've already crossed far too many lines today, and taken far too many
risks.
"You should go," he says softly.
She closes her eyes and nods, swiping her tears away with her handkerchief.
"Will you be alright?"
She nods again, her eyes still closed.
"I'll see you next week," she whispers.
"I...I look forward to it."
Esme stands to leave. She still feels miserably shattered and raw and she reaches one hand
out to grip the back of her pew as she begins to move towards the aisle. And that's when she
feels it, so soft and fleeting she might have imagined it, except she knows she hasn't. She
feels the tips of his fingers ghost across the back of her hand before slipping away as if they
were never there.
*
*
*
January, 1943
He isn't coming. Esme has been sitting in her pew for over an hour so far, and there is no
sign of him. Not the tell-tale scuff of his shoes on the flagstones, not the soft clearing of his
throat that is now so familiar to her she hears it in her sleep.
She began to worry almost immediately when he didn't materialize behind her shoulder
within moments of her settling in her spot, because he always did. Not once in all the long
months that they've been meeting this way has he ever been late by even a few minutes. So
within ten minutes, Esme knows something is wrong. After sitting frozen in place for over
an hour, she is nearly numb with panic.
What should she do? What could she do? They've made no provisions for this, no back-up
plan should something go awry. Everything was too dangerous, too risky.
Esme realizes that as close as she feels to him, she knows absolutely nothing about him.
He's a handsome, blond Englishman. He comes to the church once a week and listens while
she talks. Occasionally, he talks back. He has become the secret center of her world and she
knows less about him than she does about the man who comes to clean her chimney. Even if
she wanted to make inquiries about him, she can't. He's a cipher.
But he's not and she knows it. She may not know his name, or what he did for a living before
all this, or why he is in Paris during the war, but she knows him just the same. She knows
him better than she knows anyone on earth, and she feels he knows her just as well. The
rest, the details, are superfluous. Except without those details, he's lost to her. Not that
she's at liberty to search for him. She can't. She can't breath a word of what's been
transpiring in this church to a living soul, not even to try to find him.
In this moment, Esme feels utterly bereft. She knows she cares for him, she knows she
depends on him. He has become her rock, her safe harbor in this dark sea. But until this,
until she faces the reality of his loss, she hasn't understood how complex and powerful her
other feelings for him are.
An hour and a half go by. She outlasts even the pious praying women up front, and still she
can't bring herself to leave. She knew from the instant that he was late that he wouldn't
come at all, and yet she can't bring herself to give up. She imagines what he would say to
her, that she was taking an unnecessary risk lingering so long, and that's what finally drives
her to her feet.
She takes her time returning home, almost wandering, although the path between the
church and home is so familiar that she could never get lost. Her coat hangs open, but she's
senseless to the biting, damp cold. None of it penetrates the wall of panic in her mind.
She's turning onto her street before she's aware of it. She's still moving in a fog, but a
familiar voice snaps her back to reality.
"Good afternoon, Madame Benoit."
Gérard.
He still lives with his mother, but much about him has changed. Gone are the dirty clothes
and unshaven face. He's always a little sweaty and still fat, but he's got decent clothes and
appears passably clean. Esme knows what has affected this change. He's working for the
Nazis in secret. He's their lackey and spy. He keeps his beady eyes on the neighborhood,
looking for troublemakers, listening for discontented grousing. Worse than the banal tattle-
tale nature of that, Esme also suspects that he sniffs out those who may be aiding the Jews.
The little bastard listens to the neighborhood gossip, the secrets shared at the market
stalls, and he sells his tidbits to the Nazis. Esme thought it was impossible to loathe Gérard
any more than she did, but he's surprised her.
For the last several months, since he'd found his supposed calling as a Nazi lapdog and
errand boy, he's kept a respectful distance from her. His eyes still glaze with lust when she
passes, but he no longer makes inappropriate comments or harasses her.
Esme knows why. He thinks they're on the same side now.
"Gérard," Esme finally responds politely, inclining her head only slightly.
Gérard manages a forced, polite smile.
"How are you today, Madame Benoit?"
"Well, thank you. How is your mother?"
"She's well."
"Give her my best, would you?"
"Of course. Are you heading home to meet your guests then?" Gérard asks, barely
concealing his eager desperation. He's practically salivating for a chance to meet General
der Infanterie Dekker, to grovel before him and ingratiate himself in that quarter. It's his
abject pandering to Hans that keeps him on his best behavior now with Esme.
Because like everyone else in Paris, he thinks Hans is her lover.
Why wouldn't he? All he sees is Hans showing up at her door night after night and staying
for hours. She's managed to hold Hans at arms' length so far by summoning the specter of
her absentee husband, so their flirtation hasn't gone much farther than that…a flirtation. A
few chaste goodnight kisses, a few strokes of his fingers down her bare arm, or across her
back. Nothing more than that. But the rest of the world doesn't know that. To them she
appears as nothing more or less than General Dekker's mistress.
This thought pains her more than she realized it would. Not Gérard, anything that keeps
him away is welcome. But the idea that everyone thinks she's sleeping with Dekker, that
she's a collaborator. She thought knowing the truth in her own head would be enough, but
the idea that all her old friends, the proud, honest artists of her former circle, would think
she was a Nazi officer's mistress… the thought is repulsive. For once, she's glad that no one
from the old days has remained in Paris. She couldn't bear to run into someone and see it in
their eyes; the judgment, the revulsion.
"Yes," she finally manages. "I have guests coming for dinner. Won't you excuse me?"
"Of course. Enjoy your evening. And your company."
He forces another pained, polite smile which Esme finds it impossible to return. She just
turns and continues on to her house.
This is when I need him, she thinks. This unbearable crushing weight, this panic, this shame.
If he had been there today, if she had seen him, spoken with him, even for only a few
minutes, she could manage it. Without even that small dose of him, this charade feels
entirely out of her control, and she feels like she's drowning in it. Without him to remind
her of the truth, all she has are the lies.
Another Thursday passes, and he still does not appear. Esme can scarcely function, she's so
panicked. She actually pleads illness and sends everyone away for several nights in a row.
Hans sends enormous bouquets three times a day while she is "ill". Esme banishes the vile
flowers to the unused garret rooms. She can't bear the sight of them.
In a fit of near-madness, she goes to Café Flore one afternoon, thinking to perhaps pull
Charlotte aside and bare her soul. Charlotte works for the Resistance. That's how this whole
thing started. Maybe she knows him, or could ask around about him. Maybe she can find out
where he's gone, what's happened to him.
She gets as far as the sidewalk outside before reason takes hold again, and she stops
herself. What would he say? He'd be angry at her for putting herself at risk this way, even
for his sake. It's only this, the knowledge that he wouldn't want her to look for him, that
keeps her from doing it.
*
*
*
February, 1943
It's been three weeks. On the walk over to the church, Esme mentally tries to prepare
herself for his continued absence. This may be the end, she thinks. Maybe he'll never come
back. Maybe he was reassigned; maybe he had to go into hiding…..maybe he was captured.
She tries to brace herself for all of these eventualities, and also for the possibility that she
may never know what happened to him, but it doesn't work. She can't just let him go. She
knows she'll keep coming to this church week after week, hoping against hope that one day
he'll just appear over her shoulder like he was never gone.
Esme is blind to all the usual scenes of the church, the praying old women, the pigeons
fluttering in the corners, the sad-faced saints gazing down on her. She just enters the dim,
quiet nave and crosses to the right aisle as quickly as possible, eyes straight ahead,
expression grim. She smoothes her skirt instinctively as she sits, and she's barely begun to
tug off her gloves when she hears it.
The scuff of shoes on the flagstones behind her.
Tears spring to her eyes instantly. She has to reach forward and grip the back of the pew in
front of her to keep herself from leaping up and turning to confront him. She hangs on,
white-knuckled, as she listens to him slide into place behind her.
She doesn't wait for him to settle, or for his clearing of the throat before she leaps in, her
voice a frantic hiss.
"Where have you been?"
"I was called out of Paris for a few weeks."
"I see that! Do you have any idea how I've worried?"
"It couldn't be helped. I didn't know I was going until I was nearly leaving," he says. His
voice is so tired, more strained than she's ever heard him, "I'm sorry you worried. You
shouldn't have."
"I can hardly help it, you know."
"You were never meant to worry," he says softly, his tone sad. "You shouldn't…count on me
that way."
Esme can't help it. She breaks protocol. She twists in her pew to face him, gripping the back
with one hand. He starts back at her movement, the violation of their established
interactions. Impossibly, he looks aged since she last saw him. So tired and worn. She wants
to smooth the hair off his face. She wants to take him home and settle him onto the loveseat
in her room. She wants to lean him back on the pillows, play records for him, make him a
brandy. She wants to care for him until the lines leave his forehead and his eyes lose that
dull sheen. But none of that can happen.
"Not count on you?" she can't keep the emotion from her voice. She's a woman who's spent
her entire adult life carefully controlling every interaction with the opposite sex. She can
play conversations like a symphony. But now she has no control over what comes out. All
her fear and anxiety and uncertainty pours out as her eyes fill. "Not count on you? You're all
I have! You told me I have you, that I could always speak the truth to you! If you…if you're
gone, I have no one, nothing. If you're not here then this lie becomes my whole life!"
His face twists and collapses, his reserved façade crumbling in the face of her tears and
passion.
"You do have me. Don't ever think you don't. If I'm not here, just know that I have no choice.
I would never willingly leave you here."
"Where were you?" It's nothing more than a hushed whisper. "Just tell me. If I know
something, anything, maybe I won't worry so much."
He closes his eyes in exhaustion and defeat. "I'm a doctor," he finally says. "Well, I've
trained to be a doctor. I was needed for my abilities in the…" he instinctively stops himself
from sharing the specifics, but then on consideration realizes that everything about this has
broken the rules meant to keep them safe. Nothing he says now can make it any worse. "I
was needed in Burgundy, to tend some injured. Once I made it in, it took some time until I
could make it back out undetected. There are people there deep undercover. I couldn't do
anything to endanger them. I had to wait to leave until it was safe."
Once he's finished, they're both silent for a long time. Esme considers all he's told her. He's
a doctor. He was helping members of the Resistance who were injured and needed him. She
can tell from the exhaustion written across his face that it's taken a toll on him. Her
desperate need to have him sit in a pew behind her in an empty church every week pales to
insignificance beside this.
"I'm sorry," she finally says, twisting back to the front, "I shouldn't have made you explain
yourself. You're right, it's a terrible risk. And you don't owe me that."
"I owe you that," he says quietly. "I'll tell you whatever it takes to put your mind at ease, to
make this even a little easier for you."
"Just seeing you makes it easier for me," she breathes. "You have no idea…"
"Yes, I do. For me, too."
They sit in silence as the words they've just spoken hang in the air around them. Esme's
heart seems to have stopped and every small breath she exhales sounds deafening in the
cool quiet of the church. This…this near-declaration…it makes her pulse race and her mind
reel. But they can't. This can't happen. These words can't be said. Not here and not now.
Aro's words, spoken so long ago, come back to her now. "One should not love in a time of
war. It's just asking for heartbreak." She laughed at him that night. He laughed at her, too,
when he told her that she'd never be in love.
"A lot has been said while you were away," she finally says, her voice surprisingly steady.
She's doing this for both of them, returning them to the safe part of the water, steering them
clear of the rocks. "Some of it is useful, I think. Shall I tell you?"
There is a long silence from him before he softly clears his throat. They are back on familiar
ground now. "Yes, please. Go ahead. I'm listening."
~*~

Chapter 6

June, 1943
"Hans said he has a friend who's just been put in command of a regiment in the Baltic."
"Did he say where, specifically?" he presses.
"No, but he mentioned that there was a spa near a river that his friend was hoping to visit if
he had time."
"A spa near a river. Alright, then. Anything else?"
"I tried to get him to tell me how many troops. Hans said it was more than he'd had
command of when he was a General Major. I have no idea how many troops Hans
commanded then, but perhaps there's a way to find out. I couldn't get any more out of him
at that point."
Esme sighs and absently rubs between her eyebrows with her fingertips. It's a habit he's
noticed she's developed of late. She has never in the past had little nervous gestures like
this.
"You're tired," he says gently.
She raises her head, fixing her eyes on the now-familiar red shape of Mary Magdalene's
robe in the glass straight ahead of her, and smiles weakly. He can only see the side of her
face; her temple, her cheekbone. He can just make out the curve of her cheek as her mouth
turns up. He wishes for the ten-thousandth time that she could look at him.
"A little, perhaps."
"Late nights?" he means it to be light and teasing, but his voice has an edge to it, and Esme
hears it immediately.
The smile drops off her face.
"Yes." There's nothing else she can say, nothing else he needs to hear.
"He's there every night, then?" He's stopped trying to keep the tension from his voice.
"Nearly."
He says nothing. And as much as Esme doesn't want to talk to him about this, now she
wishes he'd say anything at all rather than this angry, tense silence.
"I have to," she finally says softly. "You know I have to."
"I know."
*
*
*
December, 1943
He clears his throat. She smiles.
"How are you today, Mrs. Platt?"
"Better now." She can't keep the smile off her face or out of her voice. She's always loved his
nickname for her, but she loves it even more since she finally forced the confession of its
origin from him. Yes, it was the name of a friend of his mother's. He failed to mention in the
beginning that his mother's friend was young and beautiful and that he'd fancied her for his
entire childhood. "And you, Mr. Stoker?"
"The best I've been all week."
"I'm delighted to hear it."
"You know, I've stared at these bloody stained-glass windows for so long that I really will
have to write a book about them some day."
"Pardon?"
"Oh," he laughs a little at his own absent-mindedness. "It's my cover story as to why I'm
here so much. I'm writing a book about the windows. Remarkable glass in this church."
"Mmm, yes. I have heard that the windows in this church are exceptionally fine."
"A splendid example of Renaissance glass work."
"I want to break every one with my bare hands," Esme says lightly.
He chuckles softly. "I've never been so sick of a work of art in my life."
She laughs, too, as softly as she can.
"Promise me I'll never have to step foot in another church as long as I live once this…."
She is about to say "once this is over", but the words feel all wrong, too daring. It's
dangerous to even hope for such an outcome. To imagine that one day this will all be
nothing more than painful memories, that they might be together someplace outside of
these old stone walls, face-to-face and free- she can't imagine that, because if she imagines
it, she will begin to hope for it, to count on it. And that can't happen. She can't hope…
"I promise," he says quietly.
*
*
*
April, 1944
"Darling, the weather is finally turning. Please come out and walk with me."
"Hans, I was up so late last night…" Esme moans, wanting nothing more than to retreat to
her room, close the shutters and take to her bed for a year. Late nights never used to be a
problem for Esme. When it was her old friends, when the house was full of her beloved
artists and writers, she never slept. She stayed up till dawn, talking. But what she does now,
entertaining Nazi officers every night, it's nothing but work and she's exhausted from it.
"Esme, you should see the streets. Everyone is out enjoying this glorious weather. The walk
will do you good."
He is standing closer now, rubbing his palms up and down her arms, crouching a little so his
face lines up with hers. Once again, Esme is struck with the thought that he is so very
handsome. Or would be, except for the black evil of his soul. The dichotomy always
astounds her. He can be so gentle with her, so courtly and mannered. He is so cultured and
sophisticated. His tastes might be a bit narrow, but he has them, and considered opinions as
well. He is well-read and has works of art and music that he feels passionately about.
And yet…
There is this evil there. He doesn't acknowledge it, and she would never know, except that
she does know. How many have been fooled by them, she wonders?
"Alright," she finally concedes. "Just let me get my gloves and bag."
"You'll see, darling. You'll be glad you came." He leans forward and presses his lips to her
cheek and lingers. His hands curl in, gripping her arms. Not with force, he never forces. But
he wants. She can't ever forget that he wants.
"Madame?"
Esme takes a stumbling step back out of his embrace. Tati is standing in the doorway, her
hands twisting in front of her. She drops into a hasty, flustered curtsey. "I'm sorry to
interrupt, Madame. I only heard you say you were going out. Shall I get your things?"
Esme runs a hand over her hair and then twists her hand, letting the back of it subtly swipe
her cheek where he kissed her. "Yes. Yes, Tati. Thank you." They exchange one brief, loaded
glance. Tati knows exactly what she was interrupting.
She doesn't look back at Hans as she prepares to go; he doesn't need any more invitations
to invade her personal space when they are nearly alone in the house. She doesn't know
how much longer she can hold him off. She has used the excuse of her husband, made it
seem as if there is something like a relationship there still, when she hasn't seen the man in
almost twenty years and doesn't even know if he's still alive. But in all the time Hans has
been coming here, no husband has appeared. Esme has blamed the war, the difficulties
involved in travel, for his prolonged absence. But her excuses and her manufactured inner
struggle are starting to wear thin. Hans wants her, and he never lets her forget it. The
thought of giving herself to him makes her ill.
"Are you ready, darling?" he beams at her, touching her elbow. Esme adjusts her glove and
retrieves her bag.
"Yes, let's go. Where are you taking me to, Hans?"
"I thought we might walk over to the Quai de Conti. The view is incomparable there, you
know."
"Yes, I know." It's my city, she thinks spitefully. I know.
Hans is right, the weather is lovely. The bite of winter has gone, and the air has a softness
and a hint of warmth. The trees are covered in a froth of pale green. New leaves, new life,
and yet Paris…Europe, is still in the grip of war. The dead are everywhere.
Hans is also right about the Quai de Conti. It's filled with Parisians looking to soak up these
first soft days of spring. In the sun and the gentle breeze off the Seine, one can almost forget
it's an occupied city. One can almost forget that millions are dying in battles and in camps
all across Europe. Almost.
Hans tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow as they stroll slowly along the quai in the
middle of the flow of pedestrians. He's smiling, contented. Esme forces herself to lean into
him, to turn her face up to his whenever he looks down at her and return his smile warmly.
"The way the sun hits the river here at this bend reminds me a bit of the Dosse, near my
family's estate outside of Wittstock," he says, his voice gentle and far away.
"They have land?"
"Oh, quite an estate. The house dates to the eighteenth century. There's a proper little farm
and we keep cattle and sheep. And the grounds! The grounds really are superb. The lawns
roll right down to the edge of the river. It's so lovely on a summer's evening."
"It sounds lovely."
He turns his head and tips his face down to hers. When he speaks, his voice sounds almost
anxious. "I hope you'll see it some day. With me."
Esme swallows hard.
"I hope I do, too."
"I can fix it, you know," he says urgently.
"Fix what?"
"The difficulties with your husband. I have connections in the church. I'm sure they could
be convinced to free you from your…situation."
"Oh…that's…it's just…"
His left hand closes around hers where it rests in his elbow. "Just think about it, Esme."
She manages a weak smile that she hopes looks sufficiently grateful. Hans lingers, his face
still close to hers. She can feel his hot breath across her cheek. His hand tightens around
her fingers. Esme ducks her head and presses herself further into his side.
"I am glad you convinced me to come out today, Hans. You're right, the weather superb."
He pulls back a little and exhales as she shifts directions in the conversation. He doesn't
press her, and she could weep with relief.
"It's a little crowded down here. I hope you don't mind," he says.
"No, not at all. I like all the people."
"I like it, too," he says, and his voice is lower now. His face is back near hers, his lips
perilously close to her ear. One inch closer and he'll be kissing the side of her face. "I like to
show you off. I like having you on my arm."
Her impulse is to twist out of his grasp, but she only smiles and dips her chin a little.
They walk on for a few minutes more. She asks Hans a question about his family's estate in
Wittstock and he's occupied for some time, extolling its virtues, describing its many
beauties. It buys Esme a few moments to regain her bearings, and to refocus. She lets her
eyes flit across the pedestrians crossing back and forth in front of them, and it's then that
she catches just a glimpse of the gold between moving heads. She would know that color
anywhere. Another person crosses and she sees his face and she's certain, even at this
considerable distance.
No, no, no, no.
It's him, walking slowly through the crowds directly towards her. Hans is still talking, Esme
angles her body and her head into him, but she keeps her eyes locked on Mr. Stoker. It's the
first time she's seen him anywhere but inside of the church, and she's struck all over again
by his handsome face. Except that, unlike Hans, she knows what lies behind this handsome
face and there is nothing but goodness there. That gold hair, the color is almost
otherworldly and so beautiful. He still looks tired, his eyes shadowed, but the sun has given
his skin a hint of color. She loses herself for just a moment watching his walk, smooth and
graceful. He's wearing a light tan trench coat but it is unbelted and open, billowing slightly
behind him as he walks. He's tall, so much taller than she realized in the church. They've
never stood side by side, so how would she know? He's still far away, but she fancies she
can make out the blue of his eyes. The eyes that she now notices are skimming the crowd in
her direction. She prays that she escapes his notice.
She doesn't.
Even if she weren't watching his face, she feels sure she would know the second his eyes fell
on her. An electric shock runs through her system, then a flush of cold. He's about to see her
up close with Hans Dekker. He knows all about him, of course. They've talked about him
and his visits to her house for nearly two years now. But she's not foolish. She knows very
well that his seeing her with Hans is entirely different than knowing about his presence in
her life in some detached, intellectual sense.
Esme panics. Or rather, she wants to panic. She wants to pull her arm free from Hans, turn
back and flee into the crowd. But she can't, she can't, she can't. She has to keep leaning on
Hans, keep smiling, and under no circumstance can she betray even with a flutter of an
eyelid that she knows him. It will be the end of them both if she does.
Her eyes shoot back to his and he's still staring, moving towards her inexorably. His
expression is unreadable. So tense… disbelieving, perhaps? Angry? Repulsed? Then his eyes
flick to Dekker and linger for just a moment and there is fury. Unmasked, unbridled fury.
It's only there for an instant before he hides it away again, turning his face towards the
river. Esme feels her heart contract in her chest and she can hardly breathe. She breaks the
contact and looks at the ground.
"Don't you think so, darling?" Hans is turning to look at her again, smiling softly down at
her.
"Mmm-hmmm." She can only hum and nod stiffly to answer his unheard question, forcing
one foot in front of the other. She glances up one more time, when she calculates that they
have nearly drawn abreast of one another. He's there, just a few feet away. At that moment
he looks back, too, his eyes connecting with hers for an instant. His face is stone. There's
nothing of his warmth and gentleness. He might be a stranger except for the way his eyes
bore into hers in that split second. His eyes shift away from hers and the connection is
broken. It splits her in two.
"Only if you'd like to, of course," Hans is still carrying on.
"Pardon?"
He stops and peers at her face.
"Darling, you look quite undone. Is everything alright?"
"I'm afraid I have a rather nasty headache, Hans. Perhaps I should go rest."
"Of course, darling. Let's get you home at once."
He turns them, and they're walking away from the quai. There are almost no taxis these
days, with fuel so scarce, but that's never a problem for General der Infanterie Hans
Dekker. He steps to the curb and a car is there. Esme feigns illness all the way home, her
eyes closed and her head tipped back, and it keeps Hans quiet.
She allows Hans to escort her to the door, to squeeze her hand and to kiss her cheek again
before she slips inside and falls against it with a dead thud. One hand comes up to clamp
down hard over her mouth, to stifle the raw sobs bubbling up from her chest. She doesn't
want Tati to hear her and come find her in this state. Her knees give out and she slides
down the door, sinking to the floor.
Esme has lived her life well outside the confines of acceptable behavior for most women,
and for that she's often been called base names by the less open-minded people of the
world. It's never bothered her for an instant. She's had little concern for what others might
think of her and her choices, and is dismissive of the largely hypocritical judgments of
others. There's a word that has been uttered to her before, and she's always tossed it off
with a shrug. But today it settles over her like hot, damp wool, suffocating, impossible to get
free of. Today she saw it reflected in his eyes, and today, for the first time in her life, that
word feels true: whore.
*
*
*
She's brought a book this week. She needs something, anything, to keep her fingers
occupied as she struggles to control her anxiety. She's alternately dreading seeing him and
desperate to see him. The look in his eyes on the quai is still burned in her mind. She's not
sure how to broach it, or even if she should. After all, who they are outside of this church is
strictly off-limits.
As always, even though she's been straining, listening for the sound, she's still startled
when she hears his steps on the stone floor behind her. She imagines she can hear
hesitation in them.
She says nothing as he slides into the pew, she just turns over Madame Bovary over and
over in her hands, her fingernails scraping lightly across the cloth cover.
No sound comes from him, not even his throat being cleared. Esme waits him out, wanting
him to show her how to proceed, what the way forward will be. But he gives her no clues, no
sounds at all. Finally she can't take the silence, and this is not a conversation she can have
without seeing his face. She takes a swift glance around. As always, no one is watching, no
one is even in her line of sight, so she takes the chance and swivels in her pew to look at
him.
What she sees steals her words. He's leaning forward, gripping the back of her pew with
both hands, his knuckles white. His head is bowed. His hair, the gold waves usually raked
casually off his face, is in disarray. She can barely see his face in the shadows, but his eyes
are squeezed tight, crinkles forming at his temples.
When she turns, he doesn't look up or move in any way, but he seems to sense her
movement. His voice is a low rasp when he finally speaks.
"Do you care for him?"
Esme shakes her head in disbelief at the question. "What?"
"Dekker. Do you care for him?"
"No! How can you ask me that?"
"He cares for you. He loves you. I saw it in his face."
"Then I'm doing my job, aren't I?" Esme can't help the tinge of venom in her voice.
That finally gets him to look at her. His face is ragged with misery. As his head snaps up and
his eyes find her, his whole body leans towards her.
"I'm sorry. Please…I…it was just seeing you with him that way…"
"It's an act. Nothing more." And as quickly as her anger came, it flees, and now she feels on
the verge of tears.
"I could understand, in your situation, if you found yourself…"
"What?" she says, "Find myself what?"
"Feeling something for him. It would be understandable. I would understand."
"Understandable? He's a monster. I could never care for him."
"I can't do this to you, I can't demand reassurances. It's wrong." His face is twisted in
anguish again, and he presses a clenched fist to his forehead.
"But you want to know, don't you? You want to know if I've slept with him."
He says nothing for a moment, warring with himself. The soldier doing his duty versus the
man in love. Finally, he simply nods his head slowly, as if dreading what will come next.
"No, I haven't."
His shoulders fall a fraction. "I'm so sorry. When I saw you with him, it made me rather
crazed. I knew, but somehow seeing it…"
"Seeing it was different."
"Yes."
"Your face terrified me…when you looked at me," she confesses after a moment.
His eyes snap back to hers and finally there is the compassion she knows there. He sees
what his reaction has done to her, and now once again his sole concern is her well-being.
"It wasn't you. I would never judge you in that way."
"Your eyes, you looked as if I disgusted you. And that is something I would understand.
There are moments when I disgust myself."
"No! You must not think that way! You're only doing what we've asked of you. It wasn't you
I was thinking of, it was him. I wanted to kill him. With my bare hands. That he would dare
to put his filthy hands anywhere near you…"
"Stop. Don't torment yourself with thoughts of things that haven't happened."
"But he wants to, doesn't he? He wants you?"
Esme pauses for a moment to consider how best to answer him, and that's all the
verification he requires. He drops his head forward into his hands.
"He wants me. That doesn't mean he'll have me."
"Can you keep holding him off?"
For the first time ever, Esme willingly looks away from his face, back towards the glass in
front. Because she honestly doesn't know the answer. That she's been able to keep Hans at
arms' length for this long is nothing short of a miracle. But it can't go on. As long as she
allows him in, encourages him, makes him think she cares, he will want her. And there will
come a time when her excuses no longer work, and she will have to decide what to do.
"Maybe we should leave."
His words, spoken so softly into the air behind her, and with so little fanfare, make her spin
around to face him again.
"Leave? What are you talking about?"
"I can't leave you like this. With him. Now that I've seen it… seen him with you, I can't stand
it. We could leave. We could run. Maybe to my family in England. Or just anywhere."
Esme can only blink at him in disbelief that he would suggest something so outrageous, so
desperate, so impossible. But just the fact that he wants to is all that she needs to give her
the strength to keep going.
"We can't do that," she says softly. "You know that. I could never get out of the country."
He sighs heavily and shakes his head. "I know."
"And besides, you would regret it, abandoning the work we're doing here."
He looks up at her then, his eyes sharp, his jaw set. "I wouldn't regret anything that would
get you away from him."
All she can do is smile softly at him. Slowly, tentatively, he reaches out and rests his
fingertips on the back of her pew. Just as slowly, she reaches out and covers his fingers with
her own.
*
*
*
Early June, 1944
Esme stops short as she passes between two columns into the aisle of the church. He's there
already. He's sitting in his regular spot, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands
clasped lightly, head bowed.
They've had so little opportunity to get to know each other physically. She's never felt his
arms around her, never seen his face as he really lets go and laughs, never seen him wake
up in the morning. In so many ways they are still strangers, but in others she knows him
better than she knows herself. And she can feel his anxiety and tension just from the set of
his shoulders, the way his hands are linked together. He feels it, and then so does she.
The click of her heels on the flagstones has alerted him that she's here, and his head snaps
up. Their eyes meet for just a moment. Esme hoards each of these moments, each tiny
glimpse of his face, like a miser. Each time gives her one more detail to add to the reserves
in her mind. Then his discipline kicks in, and he looks away like she's a stranger. Esme falls
back into character, too, and slides into her pew without another glance at him.
"You're early," she murmurs.
"I'm anxious."
"Everyone is anxious," she responds. And there is much to be anxious about. Because four
days ago, the Allies stormed the beaches at Normandy, and now they control that whole
section of the coast. The Germans have been unable to repel them. No one knows what it
means, but there are Allied soldiers on French soil.
"I don't know what will happen next," he says.
She chuckles in spite of herself. "Do you really think anyone does? Even the generals
running the whole thing don't have the faintest idea."
"I know, you're right. It's only that I'm worried about you. The situation could begin to
change very quickly."
"And I'll react very quickly," she says, trying to make her voice as reassuring as possible.
The last thing he needs now is to be worrying about her safety. She can look after that
herself. "So…" she begins hesitantly. "Do you think they'll make it to Paris?" She almost
always resists the urge to press him for information. He hates to keep her in the dark, and
he'll tell her what he knows, but he's right, it's dangerous for both of them for her to know
anything not absolutely necessary.
He sighs heavily. "I don't know. Perhaps. They're trying. And there is…"
"What?"
"We're trying to help them out from this side. Cutting power lines, sabotaging rail lines, that
sort of thing."
Esme nods tightly. "Hans has complained. Disruptions, shipments that were delayed. He
was furious."
He snorts derisively, a bitter sound she's never heard from him. "Good. I hope he's terribly
put out," he says sarcastically.
"You mustn't be jealous," she scolds gently.
"I can't help it," he sighs. "I'm jealous that he gets to see the color of your hair in the
sunlight whenever he likes and I don't."
This time Esme can't bring herself to scold him or even to continue pressing him for
information, she can only duck her head and smile.
For the first time since this all began, she wishes the two of them could stay right here in
their respective pews forever. The future has become so dangerous and uncertain. She'd
rather take just these stilted, stolen moments with him than risk losing it all in the storm
that's to come.
~*~

Chapter 7 ~ Battle For Paris, Part 1

August, 1944
On Tuesday everything is the same.
On Wednesday, the Gendarmerie goes on strike.
Word reverberates through Paris like a gunshot in a silent hall. The local police force is on
strike. In an occupied country. It is a breathtaking show of defiance, and it means that the
rumors might be true. Resistance fighters have organized under the banner of the French
Forces of the Interior, under the remote command of General Charles de Gaulle, and they
are advancing through the south towards Paris.
By Thursday, Parisians are holding their breath and waiting to see what comes next. The
streets are quiet as every Parisian stays safely in their homes, avoiding any possible
trouble in the streets.
Every Parisian except for Esme Benoit. It's Thursday, and she has an appointment which
she intends to keep. She dresses with her usual care, spends perhaps a little longer on her
hair than usual since she knows he likes her hair, and she heads downstairs to collect her
bag and go. Tati is there at the foot of the stairs, large pale eyes terrified, twisting her
fingers together in anxiety.
"What is it, Tati?" Esme says with a hint of impatience.
"You're still going, Madame?"
"Of course, Tati. You know I go out every Thursday morning." They've kept up this silly ruse
that Tati doesn't know exactly what she's doing, even after all this time. By now it's just
comforting, both of them pretending that everything is alright.
"But I've heard that it's dangerous out there!"
Esme sighs and rest her hand on Tati's arm. "Tati, it's been dangerous for quite some time,
at least for me. I can take care of myself."
"Of course, Madame," she whispers. "Just be careful."
"I always am."
Esme makes her way quickly to the church, along the path she's walked once a week for
over two years. The streets are quiet, nearly deserted. And yet, even with an almost
complete lack of people, the tension in the air is still palpable. The atmosphere in Paris
feels nearly flammable, as if all it would take is a spark to set the whole city ablaze. It's an
unsettling feeling, and Esme is relieved to finally reach the cool quiet of the church.
But for only the second time in two years, he doesn't come. Like the other time, she waits
well over an hour, long past when she's sure he won't be there. Like before, she can't bring
herself to go, to abandon hope.
This time is different, though. With the unsettled situation, the complete lack of concrete
information, the possibility of chaos and violence breaking out at any moment, his absence
hits her so much harder. As she slowly makes her way back home the way she came
through the sultry August heat, she thinks he could be anywhere, facing any number of
dangers. And how will she ever know? How will she ever find him? The idea that he might
be swept away from her forever in the madness that's coming leaves her desolate.
As she walks blindly down Rue St. Germain, a German covered-troop-transport truck
speeds past her in the other direction. She cranes around to look and it's filled with German
soldiers, but they are not sitting in ordered rows as one would expect. They are crammed
in, hanging on at odd angles, as if there are too many of them squeezed in, or they piled in
too hastily. Within moments, two jeeps scream past as well. She catches a glimpse of gold
braid and insignia. Officers. Also, a gaggle of enlisted men squeezed in the back. The whole
thing feels off, frantic, out of character for these disciplined, ordered military men.
Odd, certainly, but in and of itself the incident tells her nothing. Trapped here in this tense,
frozen city, there is no way to know anything at all.
*
*
*
Friday, August 18, 1944
The next morning, Esme is just settling in with her second cup of coffee when Madame
Chernot appears at the back door, knocking urgently.
"Come in, come in," Esme urges her as she opens the door to her. "What's the matter?"
"On strike!" Madame Chernot says.
"The Gendarmes? Yes, I know."
"No, the whole city!" Madame Chernot breathes, her withered old face lit up with
excitement. "Has Tati not been to the market today?"
"No, not yet."
Madame Chernot waves a hand in annoyance and Esme senses that she wants to launch into
a lecture about how lazy Tati is not to have done the shopping already and that Esme is too
soft on her, but then she catches herself and remembers the purpose of her visit. "The
whole city is shut up tight! Every shop, every office! No one is working! The city is at a
standstill!"
"What does it mean?"
"The Resistance!" Madame Chernot trills.
"What about them?"
"They've seized the Hôtel de Ville!"
"What? How?"
"No one knows, but the Germans haven't even tried to take it back. They're all holed up in
the Hôtel de Crillon and they aren't coming out. Word is the Resistance has seized buildings
all over the city!" Madame Chernot is more energized than Esme has ever seen her. "This is
it, Mademoiselle! We are showing those vermin what's what!" In her enthusiasm she has
forgotten their carefully crafted charade, that Esme is the consort of the Nazi general and a
friend to the occupiers. Esme decides in an instant that she won't remind her. She's done
playing this part. And if Madame Chernot's news is true, it doesn't matter anymore anyway.
Esme steps back and considers what's happened. He told her the situation might change
quickly, and apparently he's right. The whole thing is beginning to blow up out on the
streets. Madame Chernot has said that the Germans are still in their headquarters, but will
they stay there? Surely, at some point, they'll take to the streets to fight back against the
uprising? That's when things will really become dangerous, even for the innocent
bystanders.
The practical woman in Esme immediately begins to assess the situation. Things will
undoubtedly deteriorate, and who knows for how long? Will Paris be under seige? They will
need food. Will the Germans ransack the city? They might have to secure the house. Her
eyes flicker to Madame Chernot, elderly and utterly alone.
"Madame, you should come and stay with me, at least until things quiet back down."
"Oh, nonsense!" the old woman smiles, waving a hand absently. "That house served me just
fine through thirty years of marriage with André, and it will serve me just fine now."
Esme takes a moment to reconsider her strategy, because Madame Chernot simply cannot
stay there alone. "But Madame," she pleads. "Things may become so difficult. And all I have
is Tati. Who knows how long it may be until we can get food at the markets? We'll have to
make do with what's in the pantry and you know what a terrible cook Tati is. Won't you
come and help me?"
It is exactly the right tack to take with Madame Chernot, for she's on her feet in a flash,
headed to the pantry, muttering under her breath about silly little country girls as she
takes inventory of what's on hand. Madame Chernot takes charge of the kitchen and by the
afternoon, Tati has helped her bring over all the useful food from her house, along with her
necessities, and Esme has her ensconced in one of the second floor bedrooms. Esme can
breathe a small sigh of relief. At least one problem is solved. Madame Chernot is now safely
under her roof.
And not a moment too soon, as by early evening, angry French youths are roaming the
empty streets in packs, shouting obscenities about the Nazis, breaking bottles, burning Nazi
propaganda posters. It's all just little shows of defiance, but still, they add to the feeling of
Paris being stretched taut like a bow, about to snap.
*
*
*
Saturday, August 19, 1944
Madame Chernot and Tati set out early to see if anything is open, if any food is to be gotten.
They come back completely empty-handed, but full of gossip and enthusiasm.
"They're pulling out!" Madame Chernot chortles gleefully.
"Are you sure?" Esme presses, disbelieving. Might this long nightmare finally, finally be
ending?
"Well, only some of them, but we saw a few of them in trucks heading for the city gates,
didn't we, Tati?"
Tati nods in wide-eyed, speechless agreement.
"The rumor is that they've already turned over parts of Paris to the Resistance. There
seems to be a lot of confusion about which parts are to be for the Resistance and which are
to be for the Germans, however. No one really knows what's going on, not even the
Germans. Everything is all in chaos. But we passed a couple of them packing up their house,
didn't we, Tati?" She elbows Tati, who again nods breathlessly.
"You seem to be enjoying this a bit too much, Madame Chernot," Esme scolds her fondly.
"Bah! I had to live long enough to see my country fall into the hands of those vipers. I'm just
happy that I've lived long enough to see my countrymen give them the boot and kick them
back out."
Esme can't help but laugh, and hopes that in the coming days there's still so much to be
excited about.
*
*
*
Sunday, August 20, 1944
Instead of the bells of St. Germain des Prés that Esme is used to waking to on Sunday
mornings, it's the sound of gunshots that shatter the still of the morning. Esme scrambles
out of bed and throws her silk floral robe on hastily. She's still tying the sash as she nears
the bottom of the stairs. Madame Chernot is already there, a wide wool shawl thrown over
her old-fashioned nightdress. Tati is behind her, craning on tip-toe to see out the window
over Madame Chernot's shoulder, her light hair still up in pincurls. Madame has one shutter
cracked slightly, swiveling her head to see what might be happening.
"What is it? What's happened?" Esme asks as she rushes into the front parlor behind them.
"I can't tell yet. I can't see anything," Madame Chernot throws over her shoulder. "But I can
hear the shouting. They must be out on Boulevard Saint Germain, or perhaps over on Rue
Danton."
Another volley of shots ring out, sounding closer this time, and all three women jump.
There is a moment of silence after as they all breathe heavily, glancing around
apprehensively. Esme is the first one to pull herself together.
"Oh, for heaven's sake!" she snaps, "If they're about to have a gun fight on my front steps, I'd
prefer not to be caught in my nightclothes. Let's get dressed."
Her words snap the other two out of it, and all three women scramble for the stairs. An
hour later, all are dressed, and Madame Chernot is in the kitchen harassing Tati over
breakfast. Esme stands guard at the front parlor windows, peering through the shutters,
listening to the gunshots. Sometimes they sound farther away, sometimes startlingly close.
She still can see nothing, but with her house situated at the bottom of a cul-de-sac, this is
not surprising. The not-knowing is eating her alive, however, and shortly after breakfast,
she determines to go out.
Madame Chernot wants to accompany her, but Esme begs her to stay and keep Tati calm, as
the girl is on the knife-edge of hysteria all the time. Once again, appealing to the practical
problems does the trick with Madame Chernot, and she agrees to stay in and keep an eye on
the house. Before Esme leaves, she retrieves the pistol Hans brought her several months
ago. He told her it made him uneasy, her living alone with only Tati in the house. At the
time, Esme thought bitterly that he was the only person she really had to fear, but she only
smiled and nodded and tucked the offending object away on a high shelf in the pantry. Now,
however, she's grateful to have it, and hands it over to Madame Chernot and Tati, in case of
the worst.
Rue de Jardinier is absolutely deserted and still when she finally steps outside. It's rather
chilling, and leaves her feeling as if she's the last person on earth until another round of
gunshots ring out. Now that she's outside, she can pinpoint their direction; to the east, and
only a few blocks, if she's not mistaken.
Esme walks out to Boulevard Saint Germaine and looks east towards Boulevard Saint
Michel. And now she sees the source of the gunshots. A large German troop transport
vehicle lies on its side right in the intersection of St. Michel and St. Germaine. It's been
upended there on purpose, she surmises, as a group of men are using it as a barricade,
crouched low behind it, each holding rifles. They are not in uniform, and from the looks of
them, they are all French. There are perhaps ten of them, mostly young men in their
twenties, but two are considerably older. They are…ordinary. When Esme imagined the
fighters of the Resistance that were rumored to be advancing on Paris, she imagined an
army. But these just look like men off the streets. And that's what they are, she realizes.
This is no army marching into Paris to free them. This is the citizens of Paris, rising up to
kick out the invaders. Paris has taken to the streets to reclaim its own.
The men behind the truck are shouting, both to each other and to others she can't
see…hiding in nearby buildings, perhaps? As she watches, shots ring out and the men
behind the truck duck down, making themselves as small as possible. The shots seem to
come from further down Boulevard St. Michel, towards the Sorbonne. The men stay
huddled behind their makeshift roadblock, but answering shots ring out from a building
across the intersection. Resistance snipers are there, helping to hold off the Nazis,
defending the blockade. Boulevard St. Michel, the road they have blocked, leads to the St.
Michel bridge. On the other side of the bridge, on the Île de la Cité, is the Prefecture of the
Police. Has the Resistance taken the Prefecture? Esme's mind spins with the possibilities.
This is really happening.
As she watches, spellbound, there are angry shouts from the sniper's lair in the building. A
banner is unfurled from an upper window, black with a symbol hastily painted in white. It's
a large V with a croix de Lorraine nestled into the middle.
"Madame, get yourself inside to safety!"
A voice behind Esme makes her jump. He's young, dark-haired and dark-eyed, his face
sweaty and lined with dirt. His shirt is hanging half-opened. He's clutching a rifle and he has
a belt full of spare bullets slung across his chest.
"It's not safe out here! Go back in!" he repeats urgently.
"Are you with the Resistance?" she asks.
He snorts a humorless laugh. "I suppose you could say that. On this day, every true
Frenchman is, don't you think?"
Esme nods, then reaches out to grasp his forearm.
"Look," she says quickly, "My house is there, just at the end of Rue de Jardinier. I don't have
much, but there is a little food and it's safe. If you need shelter, come and I will help."
He looks into her face long and hard. He seems so young, maybe no older than twenty, but
his eyes are hard and tired, years older than the rest of him. Finally he nods.
"Thank you, Madame…?"
"Benoit. Esme Benoit."
His surprise shows on his face and he leans back nearly imperceptibly. Ah, she thinks, he's
heard of me. General Dekker's whore.
"But I thought you were…"
"No," Esme shakes her head firmly. "It's all been a lie." And this is it; for the first time since
she's started, she's about to confess the truth to this stranger on the street. It's the
beginning of the end, of letting go of the whole long, hateful nightmare. "I've been meeting
with a contact, passing on information."
His eyes widen in shock. "You're a spy?"
It's Esme's turn to laugh without humor now. "A spy. How very glamorous that sounds. They
came to my house, I listened carefully, I passed on everything I heard. Not so very much in
the scheme of things."
"It was brave," he says, his face gentler now. "But Madame Benoit," he continues, "It's very
dangerous out here. Please go back in. The lads are holding the blockade while the men
across the bridge try to take the Prefecture, but they're low on ammunition. The Germans
might overtake us at any moment."
Esme nods and steps aside to let him go, but then halts him once more. "Please, can you tell
me…the flag there, what does it stand for?"
He looks back over his shoulder towards the building, and for the first time a small smile
plays at the corner of his mouth. "It's the flag of the French Forces of the Interior. The
Resistance army. They've taken that building."
Another round of gunshots ring out, making them both flinch. A fine spray of dust erupts
from the building next to them and Esme realizes a bullet has hit it, sending concrete
powder everywhere.
"Go!" the boy shouts to her, "And good luck, Madame Benoit!"
"Good luck to you, too," she calls before racing away, back down Rue de Jardiner towards
her house.
Once she hits the door, she slams it behind her, leaning on it, breathing heavily. Madame
Chernot and Tati hear the noise and come racing from the kitchen in the back of the house.
"What is it?" Madame Chernot calls, "What's happening?"
"An uprising," Esme breathes. "The Resistance, taking back the city. They're blockading
streets, fighting off the Germans."
"Oh, thank heavens!" Madame Chernot cries, clapping her hands together.
"We need a flag!" Esme says urgently.
"A flag, Madame?" Tati asks, confused.
"Yes! Something to hang out of the window. See what you can find, Tati!"
Tati comes back from the kitchen waving a dish towel, but Esme shakes her head.
"Too small," she states. "It needs to make a statement."
She strides into the parlor and seizes one of the heavy dark drapes over the parlor
windows. With one firm yank she rips it free of the rod, and it falls in a heap on the floor.
"Here, help me, Madame Chernot! I want everyone in Paris to know just where the
residents of this house stand. Tati, do we have any paint?"
"There is a bit of whitewash the handyman left in the cellar. I'll get it!"
They are energized by the project at hand, and within minutes, the curtain is stretched out
on the parlor floor and Esme has painted it with the symbol she saw on the banner outside,
explaining to Madame Chernot and Tati as she goes. Once it's done, the three of them hoist
it out of the dining room window, securing it on the inside of the sill. Esme steps out front
for just a moment, to examine their handiwork and how they've marked the house, but
gunshots are still ringing out from Boulevard St. Michel, so she doesn't linger.
*
*
*
Monday, August 21, 1944
It is nearly nine at night when the sharp banging on the front door shatters the tense
silence in the house, causing Esme, Madame Chernot and Tati to all jump out of their chairs.
It has been another long day of tense idleness. Late the night before, a rag-tag little group of
Resistance fighters made their way to the front door, sent by the boy from the street. They
were hungry and exhausted after finally outlasting the Germans they were fighting.
Madame Chernot made them dinner, and Esme poured the wine. They ate gratefully, but
were unable to tell them much about anything outside of their own little street-corner war.
The men stayed just long enough to wash up before they left again, off to find another fight
where they might do some good.
The women barely slept that night, choosing to sit up in the parlor and just listen to the
cacophonous night. They each dozed off in turn, waking after a fitful hour or two of sleep.
Monday passes in the same edgy silence, and they are settling in for another anxious night
of listening when the pounding begins.
Esme stands and crosses to the door, leaving Madame Chernot and Tati clutching each
other's hands.
"Who is it?" Esme calls through the door.
"It's Hans," comes back the disconnected voice. Esme's eyes fall closed and she rests her
forehead on the door for a minute, trying to gather her strength. She had hoped he would
never reappear, that he would be so caught up with the war being waged on the streets that
he'd never be able to get away to come find her. She should have known better. She should
have known that he would find a way to get to her no matter what. He is too persistent to
just walk away from her.
"Madame Chernot, I need a moment, please?" Esme murmurs.
"Are you sure it's safe?"
"He means no harm. But it's better if I do this alone."
Madame Chernot nods tightly and pulls Tati after her into the kitchen. Once they are gone,
Esme takes one more bracing breath and opens the door. Hans is standing there,
completely unkempt. He's still in his uniform, but the top three buttons are undone, and
she can see his sweat-stained undershirt beneath it. His black boots, usually shining and
hard, are scuffed and coated with dust. He's hatless, and his ordinarily fastidiously-
groomed blonde hair is a mess. He's got a smudge of dirt across one high cheekbone, and
his eyes look as if he's aged ten years since she last saw him. Her flag, painted haphazardly
on the parlor curtain, hangs clutched in his fist.
His eyes cut into hers as she opens the door to face him, and he raises the ripped flag.
"What is the meaning of this?" his voice is low, but so full of menace that Esme has a
momentary attack of nerves. But swallowing it down, she squares her shoulders and raises
her chin. This is it, she thinks, time to drive in the knife.
"I wanted to be perfectly clear about where my allegiance lies."
They simply stare at each other for a long time as Hans works through what she's said. In
spite of everything, Esme feels a flash of pity for what she's about to do to him. But then she
reminds herself that this frantic, desperate man who is in love with her has a hidden side,
one that has killed tens of thousands of people. And that man deserves everything she's
about to do to him and more.
"I thought your allegiance was to me, Esme," he finally says softly.
"My allegiance is to France. A free France. It has always been to France," she says evenly,
with no emotion.
Hans rakes his hand through his hair in an uncharacteristic display of confusion. "Do you
mean to tell me…"
"Everything you said, Hans. Every word, dutifully passed on to my contact, to be used to plot
against you. Yes."
His mouth opens as if to say something, but nothing comes out. It hangs open as the shock
and disbelief fill his eyes. He's breathing hard, his chest heaving.
"How could you do this to me?" he finally whispers hoarsely.
Now it's Esme's turn to be stunned into disbelief. "How could I do this to you? How could
you do it to them?"
"Do what to whom?"
"The fifteen thousand Parisians you locked into the Velo d'Hiver before packing them into
trains and sending them to die in your camps!" Esme can't control her emotions any more,
two years of her repressed anger and hatred beginning to bubble up and spill out. "And God
only knows what other atrocities you've committed that I've never heard about!"
Hans sputters momentarily in disbelief. "But…that was…Esme, you must understand, I was
just following orders, doing my job. You must see that."
"Orders? You were just following orders? Well, I'm sure those people you slaughtered will
understand once you explain that you were just doing your job. Except that they can't be
made to understand, can they, Hans? Because they're all dead. Dead by your hand."
"You make it sound as if I murdered people in the streets, Esme. Those people were not…"
"Those people were free French citizens, just the same as me! And yes! Your hands are
every bit as bloody as if you slit their throats with your bare hands!"
"I suppose it's too complex for a woman like you to grasp, but there are serious
philosophies at work here, Esme. Our mission will make for a better world and..."
The look of pure revulsion twisting Esme's face stops Hans in his tracks.
"You disgust me, you and your vile philosophies. We're talking about people. People with
lives and families and futures."
"So because of your soft little sympathetic heart, you betrayed me," he growls, his voice
turning hard and bitter.
"No, Hans, you've betrayed mankind. I just did what I could to make sure you paid for it. I
just hope it helped, that everything I endured was for some good."
"Endured?" he spits angrily. "So every time I touched you…every time you smiled at me,
encouraged me, every bit was a lie?"
"Yes," she says with a tired sigh, unwilling to exert the energy it would take to soften the
blow. She doesn't really want to soften it anyway. He doesn't deserve it. Just in case she
might have forgotten, his vile words tonight have starkly underlined for her exactly what
all of this was for. "I did whatever it took to keep you coming back and talking."
Hans takes a sudden large stride forward, across the threshold and into the entryway. He
throws her flag to the ground and his hands snake out, clamping down around her upper
arms. Esme takes a step back, but she's moved too late and she can't wrench free of his grip.
"Hans…" she begins.
"You lying little bitch!" he growls, shaking her hard.
"Let me go," she says as calmly as she can. Fear is coursing through her now, and her mind
is racing, trying to determine the best way to handle him to get herself out of what's rapidly
become a very dangerous situation. She always thought what she was doing would get her
killed, but she has always imagined it would be in front of a firing squad or at the end of a
noose. It has never occurred to her that she might die like this, at the hands of Hans, furious
and betrayed. But suddenly it seems like a real possibility. And in that flash of fearing for
her own mortality, she finds she only regrets one thing, and that's not being able to see him
one more time. His face flickers in her mind, blotting out Hans for a moment.
"I came here to rescue you, to get you out of here. I was going to take you home with me. I
was going to marry you, and this is what I get from you? This is how you repay my devotion?
All this time, holding me off at arms' length, blaming your husband for your frigidity...are
you even married?"
He's becoming unhinged, his already-messy hair falling across his forehead, his eyes wide
and crazed. He's still shaking her, and his grip on her arms is painfully tight. Esme twists
again and he only grips her harder, bruising her. She looks into his face, which is at once so
familiar and now also that of a stranger.
"Madame?"
Tati's quiet, timid voice cuts through the tension in the room like a knife. In surprise, Hans
leans back away from her, although he doesn't let her go. Esme turns her head to look, and
sees Tati standing in the doorway, pale eyes wide with fear, arm raised, hand shaking
wildly where she's clutching the pistol.
"Put that gun down, you stupid girl," Hans snarls.
Tati merely shakes her head slightly. Her hand is still shaking, but the gun remains pointed
right at Hans. Esme gives one more hard twist and finally breaks his hold on her arms. She
stumbles back towards Tati.
"Give it to me, Tati," she murmurs. Esme pulls the gun from the girl's hand, and Tati nearly
collapses as the tension leaves her. Esme pushes Tati behind her, re-training the gun on
Hans. He takes a step towards her.
"She couldn't do it," he sneers.
"No, she couldn't," Esme acknowledges. "But I can. And I will. I think I've proven at this
point that I will do whatever I have to do. Don't make me do this."
"You think I'm just going to walk away with a shrug? After what you've done, you filthy,
lying whore?"
Esme bristles at his use of that word, the one that cuts right to the heart of her fears, but she
makes herself stand up straighter and she extends her arm further. "Walk away or be
carried out, Hans. It's up to you. Leave now, while you still can. I'm giving you a chance,
which is more than you did for them."
They stand frozen, eyes locked for a long time. Esme's hand does not shake like Tati's did,
and the barrel of the gun stays trained on his chest. Without a word, Esme slowly cocks the
safety off with her thumb and the click echoes in the silent room louder that a gunshot
would.
Slowly, as he realizes that she really intends to do it, the light of fury in his eyes fades. His
shoulders sag as the weight of the last several days seems to overtake him all at once. He
doesn't say a word. He just turns his face away as he moves towards the door. He kicks her
homemade flag out of the way, then strides wordlessly through the door and out into the
night.
Esme is still standing there, pointing the gun at the open front door, several moments later
when Madame Chernot steps up behind her. The old woman's wrinkled little fingers close
over Esme's hand, gently prying the gun free. Esme finally lets it go and closes her eyes. Tati
pulls her back by the shoulders and she falls into the nearby chair. It's only then that she
lets the sobs overtake her.
~*~

Chapter 8 ~ Battle For Paris, Part 2

Tuesday, August 22, 1944

The morning after Hans' visit dawns as the last two have. Gunshots ring out across the city,
shouting reverberates off the buildings, there is scattered smoke on the horizon. Esme
walks out as far as the Pont Neuf to see the state of things. At every major intersection,
there are makeshift road blocks. Often they are overturned commandeered German army
vehicles. Sometimes, they are formal arrangements of wooden crossbeams and looped
barbed wire. In some places, the neighbors have come out and wrenched up the paving
stones to make crude walls.
The barricades are manned, sometimes by trained soldiers, but often by ordinary French
men and the occasional woman, armed with whatever ragtag weapons that have managed
to survive the occupation in private hands. There are still Germans fighting back, but the
air is one of barely-controlled chaos. The Germans seem to have no clear sense of purpose,
no over-arching command. There is no order to them. They are just ragtag groups of
soldiers, trying to hold back the Resistance fighters at every corner. The road blocks have
worked. There are no vehicles moving. Whatever German trucks haven't been tipped over
to block the streets are parked abandoned on the side of the road, or commandeered by the
Resistance fighters and crudely painted with the emblem of the French Forces of the
Interior.
There is near-constant gunfire, the pops echoing off the buildings in the empty streets, and
punctuated by the shouting and the screaming. Esme wanders vaguely in the direction of
the Pont Neuf, if only because it's the way to the church, and to him; not that she thinks he's
there now, but because the route is comforting and familiar, and her feet seek it out on
their own. She only makes it as far as the corner of Rue des Artistes and Rue Dauphine
when the pandemonium halts her.
There is shouting, so much of it that it makes her cringe back against the buildings. Ahead
of her, in the square where several streets converge, there has been heavy fighting
underway for some time. There are Resistance fighters huddled behind an impressive wall
of sandbags topped with barbed wire that spans the width of Rue Dauphine at an angle. It's
reinforced on either end with a commandeered German jeep. This wall is far better manned
than the others Esme has come across. There are perhaps thirty fighters here, maybe more.
Across the square, at the head of Rue Mazarine, are the Germans. They've hunkered down
behind a troop transport. Its canvas sides are ripped and riddled with bullet holes. Esme
catches only glimpses of the soldiers behind it, but they are in every bit the disarray that
Hans was in when she saw him last night.
In addition to the Resistance fighters swarming the barricades, there are snipers in the
upper stories of the nearby buildings. Esme catches a glimpse of bodies in a building
fronting Rue de l'Ancienne Comédies, and a puff of smoke just after gunshots ring out from
the windows on Rue Dauphine.
The two sides trade gunshots back and forth for a few minutes, each soldier in turn poking
up just long enough to squeeze off a shot at the other side before retreating back down. A
Resistance fighter makes a break for it, darting out from behind the barricade towards the
sniper's nest across the square. A shot rings out from the German side and he falls,
propelled forward by his own momentum. Esme starts involuntarily, nearly ready to run
out to the man and offer help instinctively, but fierce retaliatory gunfire from the
Resistance side pins her down. The Germans return fire, and for a few minutes the noise is
deafening. Chips of concrete rain down on Esme where she's crouched against the building
as bullets ricochet off the walls around her. The fallen man lies helpless and unmoving in
the middle of the square.
No one comes to his aid. Of course not, Esme thinks. Who can come? Who would come? The
hospitals likely have no ambulances, if there are even still doctors there to help. The
thought is chilling. She sees now that the city is in near-anarchy. For the Germans most
certainly don't hold it any longer, but there are enough of them to keep the Resistance from
definitively seizing command.
And the Resistance? Esme knows better than anyone how they've had to survive during the
war. Scarcely acknowledging each other's existences as they wage their private little wars.
The Resistance certainly has no plan of governance ready to execute when the Germans
leave. So what then?
A truck comes barreling towards the square down Rue Mazarine, behind the Germans.
There is more chaos and shouting and gunshots, but Esme is quickly able to discern that it's
a truckload of Resistance fighters, and they've now effectively cornered this pocket of
German soldiers. Fearing the violence about to erupt before her, Esme runs back the way
she came, back towards her house. If madness descends on Paris once the Germans are
gone, she wants to be securely inside her house when it happens.
*
*
*
Later that night, as they settle in for another tense, sleepless night listening to the gunfire,
there is pounding on the door again. Tati shrieks and Madame Chernot pats her arm in
reassurance.
"Don't answer it!" she hisses at Esme.
"We don't know who it might be," Esme reasons.
"What if it's him? Dekker?" Madame Chernot implores her.
"He won't come back here, Madame, I promise you that. Look, I have the gun." Esme waves
it lightly as she crosses to the entry way. It is a bit mad to open the door at this time, but she
can't help the desperate hope that somehow Mr. Stoker has been able to find her. He will try
as soon as he can, of that she's certain. But there's no telling if he'll succeed, or, given the
situation out on the streets, if he'll even survive to. That thought has been clawing at the
back of Esme's mind since the fighting first broke out, but dwelling on it only makes it
worse and doesn't help him. So she presses it away, to be dealt with later, when this is all
over, if it ever is.
The pounding at the door comes again, this time accompanied by a voice. "Madame Benoit?
It's Alec. From the street two days ago? You said if I needed…"
Esme wrenches the door open before he can finish his sentence. The young, dark-haired
Resistance soldier from the street is there, holding up a badly wounded man. Another
young soldier stands beside him, a wounded man in his arms as well.
"The Red Cross is in the city, providing medical care to both sides; but because of the road
blocks, they can't get anywhere near here. And we had to get them off the streets," Alec
explains in a rush. He is wounded too, Esme sees, a gash on his forehead, caked in dried
blood.
She reaches out instinctively to help him bear the weight of his friend, and in moments,
Madame Chernot and Tati have appeared as well, pulling the men in, lowering the two
worst ones to the floor.
Madame Chernot stands over them for just a moment, hands on her hips as she thinks. Then
she snaps into motion.
"We'll have to nurse them here in the parlor," she says, moving to start shoving chairs back
against the walls and out of the way. "The bedrooms upstairs are too spread out. Tati, go
drag down the mattresses from the beds and all the linens you can lay your hands on."
Tati rushes up the stairs to do as she's bid as Madame Chernot kneels next to one of the
wounded men, who is moaning softly now.
"I was a volunteer nurse in the Great War," she says absently. "Mademoiselle Benoit, why
don't you take those two to the kitchen to get cleaned up and fed. They've got wounds that
will need tending, too, but these boys come first."
Esme watches Madame Chernot begin to seek out pulses and peer under eyelids. Just like
that, her parlor floor is a hospital. She turns to Alec and the other mobile soldier.
"Come with me, gentlemen," she says as she leads them back to the kitchen.
Alec and his friend, Charles, are grateful to collapse into chairs at Esme's kitchen table.
They rest their heads on their arms as she scrounges up some cheese and the remainder of
a loaf of bread Madame Chernot was able to bake that morning. There is still a bottle of
preserves in the pantry, along with some dry summer sausage. The boys set upon it like
ravenous dogs as Esme pours them generous glasses of wine and they tell her all they know.
The Germans are all but done for in Paris, they say. There are bands of soldiers still fighting
it out on the streets, but without reinforcements and ammunition sent from their central
command, they're being swiftly overrun. The Germans still hold a number of public
buildings. They have the Hôtel Crillon, their headquarters, still, and several others. Those
are the German high command and they are well-guarded. Getting them out will not be
easy. But the Resistance strategy, such as it exists, is to bring the street fighting up to the
very doorways. Once they realize that the frontline of German soldiers has been eradicated,
the hope is that they will surrender.
"What then?" Esme asks them, leaning forward on the table. "Who's going to run things
here? Pétain in the south? He's as bad as the Nazis!"
Alec snorts. "That coward will hightail it and run with the Germans the second he hears
they're leaving. He's cast his lot with them, there's nothing for him in France anymore."
"So who? There must be a government," Esme presses.
"DeGaulle, of course," Charles chimes in. "He'll take over once the Germans are gone."
"But he's in Algeria! What can he do from there?"
Alec leans forward, his voice dropping instinctively, even though no one is there to hear
him. Looking into his face, Esme is once again stuck by how old he seemed, for one so
young. This war has stolen his youth away. He is a handsome young man. He should be
asking out pretty girls and taking them dancing. Instead he sits in her kitchen, filthy and
bleeding, still automatically clutching his rifle in his lap as if he can't bear to be parted from
it.
"I'll tell you what we're hearing on the streets. They say that the Americans are coming."
"The Americans?"
"Yes, from the north, where they invaded Normandy. They say DeGaulle has asked them to
come. And they say the Free French Army is on the way up from the south. They'll secure
the city until DeGaulle can get here and take over."
"How long till they get here?"
Alec sits back, weariness overtaking his features again. "Impossible to say. The roads, the
rail lines… they are all a mess." Alec laughed humorlessly, "The Resistance did it all. That's
what I was doing up until two weeks ago. Sneaking out to help blow up the rail lines so the
Germans couldn't get their troops through. Of course, now we can't get our troops through,
either."
Esme sits back, too, aching and endlessly tired. But there is no time to rest now. There are
wounded men in her living room and more here in the kitchen.
"Let's take a look at that cut on your head, and then you can clean up and get to bed," Esme
says, standing.
"Thank you, Madame," Alec says, "but once we've cleaned up, Charles and I will be on our
way. It's not over out there."
"No, I suppose it's not."
Alec catches her by the wrist. "But Madame, may we send other injured to you? There's
almost nowhere to go."
Esme shrugs. "I'll do my best. Yes, send them."
Once she's bandaged the gash on Alec's forehead and cleaned Charles' hand where he
ripped it open on barbed wire, she leaves the boys to wash up and returns to the parlor. It
has been transformed. Madame Chernot and Tati have moved all the furniture to the walls
and hauled many of the lighter chairs out of the room entirely. They've brought down
mattresses and bedding from the upstairs bedrooms and made several cots in two neat
rows on the floor. There are only the two patients at present, but clearly Madame Chernot
is anticipating more. She's cleaned the worst of the grime from them and removed their
filthy clothing. One has his shoulder tightly bandaged. The other, the one Alec had been
carrying, has a mass of bandaging wrapped around his midsection and blood is already
seeping through it.
"That one is in a bad way," Madame Chernot murmurs. "They're both shot, but the other is
clean, through and through. A little washing it out and rest and he'll be good as new. This
other one, he bleeds. I think he needs a surgeon."
Esme has no medical training, but just the little she's seen makes her inclined to agree.
"We'll just have to do what we can. The boys say the Red Cross can't get through and there's
no one at the hospital."
"We'll do our best for him, then, won't we, Tati?"
Tati looks up from where she's ripping Esme's fine cotton sheets into strips for bandages
and nods solemnly.
Half an hour later Alec and Charles take their leave. They press Esme with their thanks, and
she presses them with food and a bottle of Hans' favorite brandy for later.
The three women are up most of the night tending to the badly wounded man, Gaston, as
Alec told them. Over the course of the night, four more men are brought to the door, all
suffering from gunshot wounds of various degrees of severity. Only one is as bad as
Gaston's, although his is in his leg. Madame Chernot has made sure there are beds for them
all, and she and Tati are doing an admirable job nursing them, but the worst two need a
doctor and none is to be found.
*
*
*
Thursday, August 24, 1944
Gaston's agonized moans wake them from fitful, upright napping in the haze of early
morning. His bandages need to be changed and his wound is still rapidly seeping blood,
even after a full day under Madame Chernot's care. She mutters and fusses over him, and
finally doses him with absinthe to quiet him down. She casts worried eyes at Esme before
turning to check on the other men.
Esme's thoughts flicker, not for the first time, back to Mr. Stoker. He's a doctor. If he were
here, he could help.
The weariness and the stress of the last several days overtakes her for a moment, and she
sags against the parlor door. The fact of the matter is she just wants him. Yes, for his
medical skills, so he might save the lives of these men, but she wants him for herself. It's
finally almost over. She can practically taste it in the air. And she's no closer to having him
than she has been for the past two years; in fact, he's further away from her than he's ever
been. For the first time, there is no appointment to keep, no assurance that she'll see him
this week. And without a name, without something to go on, she very well might never see
him again.
Desperation, of a kind she's unfamiliar with, bubbles up in her chest. Suddenly all of it, the
war being waged on the streets, the chaos about to descend as the Germans give up and
withdraw, closes in around her. She has to find him. Before the armies sweep in and scatter
these ragtag Resistance soldiers to the wind. Before the retreating Germans take their final
revenge on the victors. Anything can happen in the chaos of collapse, and Esme is suddenly
panicked that she might lose him now, just when they are so close to the end.
Besides, she reasons with herself, they need a doctor for these men. Gaston's deteriorating
state has made that an imperative. She's going to find him. Today.
"I'm going out," she announces from the parlor doorway.
Madame Chernot straightens up, wiping her hands on her apron. "Pardon?"
"I'm going to try and find a doctor for the men."
"Madame!" Tati breathes, "You could be killed out there! It's so dangerous!"
Esme shakes her head. "It must be done. Gaston needs a surgeon. I'm going to go find us
one." As she's speaking, she's smoothing her dress, tucking back her flyaway hair. The city
may be collapsing, but she won't go out of the house looking like a fright.
"Do be careful, dear," Madame Chernot says.
"Of course. Here. Keep the gun close. Don't open the door to anyone until I return."
Madame Chernot and Tati stand close together, hands clasped, nodding fearfully. Madame
Chernot takes the gun and tucks it into her apron pocket.
"Right," Esme says, steeling herself. "I'll be back as soon as I can."
She brings nothing with her. Her identification papers, the special stamps of privilege her
relationship with Hans afforded her, will do her no good at all now. So she heads out the
door empty-handed. She has no idea where to start, in a city as vast as Paris, when there is a
gunfight on every corner. In the end, she decides to go back to the beginning, back to Café
Flore and Pierre and Charlotte. Maybe they know him or have heard of him.
She feels it immediately as she steps onto Boulevard St Germain, as if the very air is
different. The urgent tension of the past few days has been replaced by something else. The
barricades are still in place, but the Resistance fighters aren't cowering behind them
anymore. They're sitting atop them, smoking, shouting to comrades, or they're busily trying
to set the overturned trucks back upright and get them functional again. There are no
gunshots from what used to be the German positions. She walks for blocks and doesn't
encounter a single active gun battle. She passes a cluster of Resistance fighters in their
stained and wrinkled street clothes, leading a Nazi soldier with his hands behind his head
and a gun in his back. His face is stony and impassive.
Another block, and she sees the plumes of smoke rising across the Seine and to the West.
"What is that?" she asks one of the Resistance soldiers slouched on the ground against a
barricade.
He shrugs dismissively. "They set the Grand Palais on fire yesterday. Seems like they're
making a run for it."
"They're leaving?"
"Yes, haven't you heard?" The soldier perks up a bit at the exciting news he's about to
impart. Esme just shakes her head. She's been up to her elbows with wounded men for the
whole last day. She's heard no news since Alec left two nights ago. "The Resistance army has
reached the city. They're in the western arrondisments now. And the Americans are nearly
to the northern outskirts of the city. Word is, they'll be on the Champs Elysees by this
afternoon!"
Esme thinks sadly for a moment about the lovely Grand Palais with its enormous domed
glass roof. Such a shame to ruin something so beautiful. The noise and activity on the
streets doesn't leave her time to mourn it, however, or to give much consideration to the
soldier's news of troops in the city. She's on a mission.
The further she goes, the more chaotic the scene. Parisians are emerging from their homes
in droves, emboldened by the cessation of gunfire and the lack of German soldiers on the
streets. They're milling about the barricades with the Resistance fighters, passing bottles of
wine and cheering.
It would be thrilling if she weren't so set on her course. She has to find him. Every moment
that ticks by makes her more frantic.
By the time she reaches Café Flore, she has to push through the people on the street to
reach the front door. The place has been closed up for days, ever since the strike started,
but Pierre has hastily re-opened today, once people began to fill the streets. Half the chairs
are still upended on tables. Pierre is laughing, hurriedly pulling them down, scooting them
out, making room for the cluster of friends and loyal patrons who've clustered at the bar.
Charlotte is there, rapidly pulling down glasses and pouring wine. She's harried but
grinning ear to ear, calling out to friends in the bar as she works. The shouts and laughter
echo off the high ceilings. Esme pushes through the jostling, celebratory crowd to reach the
bar. Charlotte looks up and her face lights up at the sight of Esme.
"Esme! It's been so long! And to see you today of all days! Here, you must have some wine!"
Esme shakes her head absently. "I can't today, Charlotte. I'm looking for someone."
Charlotte laughs and casts her eyes around the café. "Looking for someone in this madness?
Good luck! We've all spent so long hiding that I doubt you'll get this crowd to quiet down for
days!"
Esme manages a weak smile as she looks around. Of course, these are all members of the
Resistance. This is probably the first time many of them have been able to acknowledge
each other openly in years. No wonder they are so exuberant.
"Charlotte, it's important," she murmurs.
At her tone, Charlotte's smile fades.
"Who are you looking for, Esme?"
"A man…" Esme stops and shakes her head, laughing humorlessly. "I don't have any idea
how I'll find him. I've been meeting him, once a week…"
"So you did it then?" Charlotte murmurs.
"Yes. I've been working for the Resistance ever since that day I came to see you here. It was
you who brought me to them."
"I knew it." Charlotte breathes. "I knew what they were saying about you just couldn't be
true."
Esme flinches and holds up her hand. "I don't want to know what was said, whatever it is.
But no, none of it was true. It was just…I did what I had to do. But it's done now and my
contact…I have to find him, I just don't know where to look. I thought you might know."
"What's his name?"
Esme chuckles again. "I don't know. And he doesn't know mine. He felt it would be safest for
both of us that way."
"You don't even know his name?" Charlotte's eyes are wide.
Esme shakes her head. "He's blond. And English."
Charlotte barks out a short, sharp laugh. "That's all you know, Esme? He's a blond
Englishman?"
"Pardon, Madame," a voice murmurs to Esme's right. "But have we met?"
Esme turns to look. There is a dark-haired man there, clutching his empty wine glass. He
seems to have come back to Charlotte for a refill and been distracted by their conversation.
His face is faintly familiar, but Esme can't place it.
"Do I know you?" she asks.
"I think we may have…Pardon me, but did we meet at the market? One morning at the start
of the war?"
Esme blinks rapidly. Yes, it's him. The man she met at the market, the one who sent her to
St. Germain l'auxerrois. The man who sent her to him. He looks entirely different. He'd been
so serious that day, his hat brim pulled low, his face set in stone. Today, like everyone else
here, he's all smiles. She'd never have placed him if he hadn't remembered her first.
"I was just coming back to see Charlotte for some more wine and I couldn't help but
overhear."
Esme reaches out and grasps his hand impulsively. "Do you know him? A tall blond
Englishman? He's the one who met me in the church that day. The church you sent me to."
"I don't know who they sent to meet you. None of us knew more than we had to know. But a
fair-haired Englishman? There aren't too many of them in Paris these days. It might be
Carlisle, although I didn't know he was doing that sort of work."
A name. It might be his name. Esme's heart begins to pound with a tiny flicker of hope, the
first she's allowed herself to indulge in for over two long years.
"Carlisle?" she repeats, her voice faint.
"Yes, Carlisle Cullen. He's been working at the American Hospital."
Esme clutches his hand tighter and closes her eyes against the wave of relief. Working at a
hospital. It must be him. Who else? Carlisle Cullen.
"That's him," she breathes. "The American Hospital?"
Charlotte interjects then, "Pierre and I saw Dr. Jackson last night. He said he was heading
down to the Quai Voltaire. There was a terrible fight there and lots of wounded men. He
said he was taking any of the staff he could find to go help the wounded."
"Dr. Jackson?" Esme presses.
"Yes, he runs the American Hospital. Find him. If Carlisle is who you're looking for, he'll
know where he is."
"I have to go," she murmurs, backing away.
"Good luck, Madame," the dark-haired man says. "Things are dangerous in that part of the
city. Be careful."
"I'm getting quite used to that," Esme says with a faint smile.
"Come back and see me soon, Esme," Charlotte says. "I have a feeling you have a lot to tell
me."
Esme smiles and nods before turning and pushing back through the rapidly-expanding
crowd towards the door.
In the brief time she's been in the café, the streets have broken open into pandemonium.
There are still soldiers, but ordinary Parisians have filled the streets, laughing, shouting to
their neighbors, waving flags, waving handkerchiefs, celebrating with anything at hand.
Every café has thrown open its doors like Café Flore, and music filters out of every open
window. The Marsellaise. That's what she's hearing, Esme realizes. The Nazis outlawed the
song during the Occupation, but now it pours forth, seemingly from every record player in
Paris. People are singing along, laughing and crying at the same time, hugging each other.
It's over, finally over.
Making progress through the crowds becomes increasingly difficult. Esme is jostled and
shoved. People are celebrating, yes, but there are pockets, certain streets, where the
celebration takes on an edge. Something frantic, aggressive, unpleasant, as if it will soon
morph into something else. If she didn't have him…Carlisle…to find, she would retreat to
the safety of her house. But that isn't an option today. She has to press on.
She rounds a corner and starts past Rue de Beaune when she hears it. Crying. Screaming,
weeping sobs, coming from a woman. No, more than one woman.
Esme wants to keep going. She's almost to the Quai Voltaire, only another block. She wants
to turn away and ignore it, but she can't. She has to know. She turns down Rue de Beaune.
There is a crowd gathered half way down the block. No, not a crowd, a mob. She can
scarcely get close, but after elbowing her way past clusters of shouting leering people,
mostly men, she's able to see what's happening. They've got a group of girls there, working
girls, prostitutes from one of the houses nearby. There are four of them. She doesn't know
these girls specifically, but she knows what they are from the look of them. These girls have
been working at one of the houses that catered to the Nazis. And now this mob of enraged
Parisians has decided to make them pay for it.
One girl has her dress ripped open clean down the front, exposing her slip. Her hair has
been chopped off crudely, down to her scalp in places. She's weeping, clutching handfuls of
her shorn hair in her hands. One of the men in the front of the crowd has another girl by the
hair and is chopping at hers, long brown strands of it falling to the sidewalk at her feet as
she shrieks.
Esme has little sympathy for prostitutes, especially not ones who chose to take advantage of
the Occupation by catering to their oppressors, but this scene revolts her. She understands
the anger at the Germans, but this anger is misdirected. What these girls did was wrong, but
what these Parisians are doing is worse. They are better than this. Or they should be, Esme
thinks bitterly.
"Let that girl go, you animal," Esme says, not even aware she was going to intervene until
the words have left her mouth.
Several men at the front of the crowd swivel to look at her in disbelief. Out of all these
people standing and watching, not one has spoken out until now. They've only been
cheered on in their malicious revenge.
"Who are you?" one of them growls at her.
"Just a Parisian, like you. And we are better than this," she says, waving a hand at the girl
weeping at his feet.
"These girls are whores!" he shouts. Esme shudders. That word. "Filthy whores that fucked
Nazis!"
"They fucked the men that paid them for it," Esme sighs. "The Nazis could afford it. Could
you? They'd have happily fucked you if you had the money."
Several people in the crowd laugh at what she says which just makes the man with the
scissors angry. Esme has made him look a fool and he doesn't like it.
"What business is this of yours, Madame? If you don't like it, just move along."
Esme opens her mouth to retort but she's cut off.
"It's no wonder she'd rush to their defense. She's one of them."
She knows that voice. Several people look to see who spoke and she can see him. It's
Gérard. His clothes, so recently improved, are disheveled. His face is flushed. She's seen him
enough in this state to recognize it for what it is; he's drunk.
"I should have known you'd find yourself right in the middle of the trouble, Gérard," she
sneers.
"Always so high and mighty. You think you're above everyone but really you're no better
than these girls."
"Oh, just go home and drink this off, Gérard, before you do something truly vile."
"Just who do you think you are?" he continues as if she hasn't spoken. "You're a whore, just
like these girls. She's Colonel Dekker's whore!" he shouts to the crowd. The murmuring
around her gets louder and Esme feels the beginning of unease. "Did he leave you behind
when he fled Paris? You can hardly be surprised at that. After all, he's already gotten all he
wanted out of you."
"You filthy little hypocrite!" she shouts at him. "You've been working for them as their
pathetic little errand boy for a year now, selling secrets about your neighbors! You think I
didn't know that? And now you stand here and accuse these girls of exactly what you
yourself are guilty of!"
"You lying whore!" Gérard has crossed the little opening in the crowd in a flash and he's
seized her by the arm. Esme is caught off-guard. In all the times he's been insulting and
lewd, he's never once tried to touch her. But she sees what's happened. She's provoked him
and nearly unmasked him. Ever the opportunist, as soon as his beloved Nazis fled the city,
he turned on them and now leads the mob calling for their heads. Anything it takes to save
his own filthy, pathetic skin.
"I know who Colonel Dekker is," one of the men in the crowd murmurs. "Quite the big man,
he was."
"Well, this woman has been his whore for two years!" Gérard shouts, shaking her by the
arm.
"Let me go, you pig! You know nothing about what I've done for two years!"
"Don't you dare try to explain it away!" Gérard sneers, his face close to hers. He smells sour,
stale alcohol. The crowd is pushing in closer. The girl with her hair half-shorn is cowering
away now that Esme has become their focus. She is surrounded, she realizes. If they choose
to attack her the way they have these girls, she will be at their mercy. "You act so superior!"
Gérard continues, "All this time, all these years, turning up your nose like you're so fine.
And really the whole time you're just the same as these girls, giving it up if the price is
right."
"Take your hands off of me, Gérard," she says again, with less strength, as she begins to be
afraid. She looks around for a friendly face in this crowd, one sane person to put a stop to
this lunacy. But the same mania, the same frantic vindictiveness has seized them all. They
want their revenge on their oppressors and they'll take it out any way they can.
Gérard shoves her back and she stumbles, half-falling to the pavement. She catches herself
with one hand and stays down. Gérard crouches next to her, his sweaty face right in hers,
and extends a hand. "Hand me those shears, man. This whore needs to be taught a lesson
the same as the others."
Esme shrinks back and twists, trying to free her arm, to no avail. She's terrified and furious
all at the same time. She's helpless in the face of these people, and she despises that feeling
and hates them for making her feel powerless.
"Take your hands off of her."
She would know that voice anywhere. But hearing it now, it seems an impossibility. He can't
be here, now.
"Just turn around, friend. This doesn't concern you," Gérard says at the man that Esme can't
see from where she lays, making no move to release her.
"It concerns me more than you know. I said release her, or I can't be responsible for what
happens to you."
The crowd shifts again, moving to watch as Gérard faces off with this new player in this
little street drama. It's him. He's rumpled and dusty and exhausted, streaks of dried blood
on the cuffs of his rolled up sleeves, but it's him. Carlisle Cullen.
"She's just a filthy whore, collaborating with the Nazis. And she's about to get what's coming
to her," Gérard snarls at him.
Carlisle takes a forceful step towards them and the crowd instinctively shrinks back,
cowering in the face of the anger radiating off him.
"This woman is a war hero. She's saved the lives of countless Allied soldiers," Carlisle says,
pointing an imperious finger at Esme.
"What the hell are you talking about? She's just some General's doxie."
"She's been working with the Resistance, you idiot! Spying on them! Now let her go!"
Gérard's hand releases her arm instinctively, but he doesn't back away from her.
"A spy? That's hardly likely," Gérard says, "And how would you know this, my friend?"
"Because I've been her contact for two years. She's met me to pass on what she heard from
the Nazis."
The crowd falls absolutely silent. They look from Carlisle to Esme, still fallen back on the
pavement. Gérard, ever the quick-thinking rodent, senses the shift in sympathies and leans
back away from Esme.
Carlisle steps forward again until he's within arms' reach before he reaches a hand out to
her. Esme stares up at him, at his beautiful, tired face. She's wanted him for so long and now
he's finally here before her, and under such despicable circumstances. But her relief at his
presence is enough to drown out everything else, the murmuring of the mob around her,
the still-weeping girls, the curses of Gérard. None of it matters. Only this man standing in
front of her.
She reaches out her hand and his fingers close around it. He reaches down with his other
hand and braces under her elbow, gently helping her to her feet. Once she's standing before
him, finally eye to eye, Esme is overcome with relief and throws herself at him. He catches
her, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her body up against his, her feet off the ground.
The feel of him, warm and real and solid…after all this time, Esme can barely believe he's
finally in her arms, that her cheek is pressed against the slightly scratchy skin of his neck,
that her fingertips are brushing his hair at the nape of his neck. All the small, intimate parts
of him that she feared she'd never know.
"Are you alright?" he murmurs into her hair. She can't speak, she's too overcome with
emotion, so she just nods. After a few moments, he releases her just enough to set her feet
back down, but he keeps her close, just a breath of air between them.
"A spy?" Gérard can't seem to let it go. His long-standing denied lust for Esme urges him on
past the point of caution. "Sounds like you might have sampled her favors, too, and now
you're just sniffing around for more."
Carlisle turns to look at him and his face is murderous. "This woman is a hero of France.
The bombing of the munitions factory in Tours? The Allies knew where to strike because of
information provided by her. They were warned that the Germans were coming to El
Alamein because she told them."
The crowd murmurs amongst themselves and Gérard is momentarily silenced.
"Is that true?" Esme breathes.
Carlisle looks back to her. "Yes. And that's just two that I know about. Countless others.
We'll never know exactly how much you've done to get us here today."
Esme wants to weep in relief. It wasn't for nothing. All of it, every hated moment with Hans,
every painful meeting with Carlisle, it mattered. It made a difference. He sees the emotion
crowding her face and rubs her arms gently before turning back to the crowd.
"We've all suffered at the hands of these monsters, and for far too long. But I suggest that
you all turn your attention to the real culprits and leave these girls alone. There's still a lot
of work to do to rebuild this country. Save your energy for that and leave the revenge to
others."
Carlisle's words added to everything else they've just witnessed seems to have taken the
blood-lust out of the crowd, and they slowly start to filter away. The four girls have already
vanished, escaping while the mob was distracted.
Gérard turns to leave in the crowd, but Esme calls out to him.
"I won't forget this, Gérard. And I know exactly what you did for the Nazis. Don't ever forget
that. I suggest you go home and help your mother. There are roadblocks that need to be
cleared. Why don't you make yourself useful for once?"
He shoots her a murderous glare, but says nothing. He just turns away and melds into the
crowd. In moments, Rue de Beaune is nearly deserted. As the adrenaline from the
confrontation finally ebbs, Esme feels nearly weak in the knees. Carlisle's hands are still on
her arms, and she reaches up to place hers on his shoulders, looking up into his cherished,
longed-for face.
"I can't believe I found you," he says softly, raising a hand to cup her face.
"I was looking for you."
"I've been helping with the injured."
"I should have known you would be." Esme can't help but smile fondly at him.
"I'm Carlisle," he says with an awkward smile. It's an odd thing to be exchanging
introductions after all they've become to each other.
Esme smiles back. "I know. Someone told me today."
"Tell me your name."
"Esme," she says.
"Esme," he breathes, trying it out.
"Carlisle," she returns, sampling the name she intends to say every day for the rest of her
life.
They stand for an age, just staring at each other in the middle of the deserted street. Finally
he simply says, "Come," before he takes her hand and leads her the rest of the way down
Rue de Beaune to the Quai.
The crowds are streaming past them, over the bridge to the Right Bank. From the passing
chatter, they can gather that the American troops have entered the city from the north and
are making their way toward the Arc de Triomphe. A spontaneous sort of parade seems to
be underway, and all of Paris is packing in along the Champs Elysees to welcome the
Americans. But Carlisle and Esme ignore it and let all the people pass them by.
By the time they reach the quai, it's nearly empty. The barricades are still there, looking out
of place and forlorn with no fighters to man them. The ground is littered with debris: spent
rifle casings, burnt paper, Nazi flags torn from the buildings and trampled underfoot.
Carlisle and Esme pick their way around it to the edge of the quai, where Carlisle finds a
cluster of folding chairs stolen from some nearby café. He lowers Esme into one and then
wearily collapses into the other himself.
For a moment they just look at each other, sitting side by side, grasping hands. Then Esme
lowers her head to his shoulder and lets herself, for the first time in over two years, rely on
someone. Carlisle just holds her, and holds her together. There is still much to face. Injured
men at home in need of Carlisle's medical care, Paris needing to be repaired and rebuilt,
Esme's reputation to be re-established, and in the far-off future a year down the road, a trip
to Nuremberg to testify against Hans Dekker for crimes against humanity. All of it looms in
their future, but for a few minutes in the late afternoon sunlight, they just allow themselves
to be, just two lovers sitting by the Seine, embracing. It's then, as the sun stretches long and
flickers across the water, when Carlisle takes her face in his hands and for the very first
time, but by no means the last, he finally kisses the woman he loves.

~*~The End~*~