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of sepia, it depicted a miniature city full of steeply slanted roofs, with thin spires atop a few scattered
towers. A wide river filled the foreground, crossed by a bridge covered with structures that looked like
tiny cathedrals.
"London in the sixteen-fifties," Edward said.
"The London of my youth," Carlisle added, from a few feet behind us. I flinched; I hadn't heard him
approach. Edward squeezed my hand.
"Will you tell the story?" Edward asked. I twisted a little to see Carlisle's reaction.
He met my glance and smiled. "I would," he replied. "But I'm actually running a bit late. The hospital
called this morning Dr. Snow is taking a sick day. Besides, you know the stories as well as I do," he
added, grinning at Edward now.
It was a strange combination to absorb the everyday concerns of the town doctor stuck in the middle
of a discussion of his early days in seventeenth-century London.
It was also unsettling to know that he spoke aloud only for my benefit.
After another warm smile for me, Carlisle left the room.
I stared at the little picture of Carlisle's hometown for a long moment.
"What happened then?" I finally asked, staring up at Edward, who was watching me. "When he realized
what had happened to him?"
He glanced back to the paintings, and I looked to see which image caught his interest now. It was a
larger landscape in dull fall colors an empty, shadowed meadow in a forest, with a craggy peak in the
distance.
"When he knew what he had become," Edward said quietly, "he rebelled against it. He tried to destroy
himself. But that's not easily done."
"How?" I didn't mean to say it aloud, but the word broke through my shock.
"He jumped from great heights," Edward told me, his voice impassive. "He tried to drown himself in the
ocean& but he was young to the new life, and very strong. It is amazing that he was able to resist&
feeding& while he was still so new. The instinct is more powerful then, it takes over everything. But he
was so repelled by himself that he had the strength to try to kill himself with starvation."
"Is that possible?" My voice was faint.
"No, there are very few ways we can be killed."
I opened my mouth to ask, but he spoke before I could.
"So he grew very hungry, and eventually weak. He strayed as far as he could from the human populace,
recognizing that his willpower was weakening, too. For months he wandered by night, seeking the
loneliest places, loathing himself.
"One night, a herd of deer passed his hiding place. He was so wild with thirst that he attacked without a
thought. His strength returned and he realized there was an alternative to being the vile monster he feared.
Had he not eaten venison in his former life? Over the next months his new philosophy was born. He
could exist without being a demon. He found himself again.
"He began to make better use of his time. He'd always been intelligent, eager to learn. Now he had
unlimited time before him. He studied by night, planned by day. He swam to France and "
"He swam to France?"
"People swim the Channel all the time, Bella," he reminded me patiently.
"That's true, I guess. It just sounded funny in that context. Go on."
"Swimming is easy for us "
"Everything is easy for you," I griped.
He waited, his expression amused.
"I won't interrupt again, I promise."
He chuckled darkly, and finished his sentence. "Because, technically, we don't need to breathe."
"You "
"No, no, you promised." He laughed, putting his cold finger lightly to my lips. "Do you want to hear the
story or not?"
"You can't spring something like that on me, and then expect me not to say anything," I mumbled against
his finger.
He lifted his hand, moving it to rest against my neck. The speed of my heart reacted to that, but I
persisted.
"You don't have to breathe?" I demanded.
"No, it's not necessary. Just a habit." He shrugged.
"How long can you go& without breathing?"
"Indefinitely, I suppose; I don't know. It gets a bit uncomfortable being without a sense of smell."
"A bit uncomfortable," I echoed.
I wasn't paying attention to my own expression, but something in it made him grow somber. His hand
dropped to his side and he stood very still, his eyes intent on my face. The silence lengthened. His
features were immobile as stone.
"What is it?" I whispered, touching his frozen face.
His face softened under my hand, and he sighed. "I keep waiting for it to happen."
"For what to happen?"
"I know that at some point, something I tell you or something you see is going to be too much. And then
you'll run away from me, screaming as you go." He smiled half a smile, but his eyes were serious. "I won't
stop you. I want this to happen, because I want you to be safe. And yet, I want to be with you. The two
desires are impossible to reconcile& " He trailed off, staring at my face. Waiting.
"I'm not running anywhere," I promised.
"We'll see," he said, smiling again.
I frowned at him. "So, go on Carlisle was swimming to France."
He paused, getting back into his story. Reflexively, his eyes flickered to another picture the most
colorful of them all, the most ornately framed, and the largest; it was twice as wide as the door it hung
next to. The canvas overflowed with bright figures in swirling robes, writhing around long pillars and off
marbled balconies. I couldn't tell if it represented Greek mythology, or if the characters floating in the
clouds above were meant to be biblical.
"Carlisle swam to France, and continued on through Europe, to the universities there. By night he studied
music, science, medicine and found his calling, his penance, in that, in saving human lives." His
expression became awed, almost reverent. "I can't adequately describe the struggle; it took Carlisle two
centuries of torturous effort to perfect his self-control. Now he is all but immune to the scent of human
blood, and he is able to do the work he loves without agony. He finds a great deal of peace there, at the
hospital& " Edward stared off into space for a long moment. Suddenly he seemed to recall his purpose.
He tapped his finger against the huge painting in front of us.
"He was studying in Italy when he discovered the others there. They were much more civilized and
educated than the wraiths of the London sewers."
He touched a comparatively sedate quartet of figures painted on the highest balcony, looking down
calmly on the mayhem below them. I examined the grouping carefully and realized, with a startled laugh,
that I recognized the golden-haired man.
"Solimena was greatly inspired by Carlisle's friends. He often painted them as gods," Edward chuckled.
"Aro, Marcus, Caius," he said, indicating the other three, two black-haired, one snowy-white. "Nighttime
patrons of the arts." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl aikidobyd.xlx.pl
of sepia, it depicted a miniature city full of steeply slanted roofs, with thin spires atop a few scattered
towers. A wide river filled the foreground, crossed by a bridge covered with structures that looked like
tiny cathedrals.
"London in the sixteen-fifties," Edward said.
"The London of my youth," Carlisle added, from a few feet behind us. I flinched; I hadn't heard him
approach. Edward squeezed my hand.
"Will you tell the story?" Edward asked. I twisted a little to see Carlisle's reaction.
He met my glance and smiled. "I would," he replied. "But I'm actually running a bit late. The hospital
called this morning Dr. Snow is taking a sick day. Besides, you know the stories as well as I do," he
added, grinning at Edward now.
It was a strange combination to absorb the everyday concerns of the town doctor stuck in the middle
of a discussion of his early days in seventeenth-century London.
It was also unsettling to know that he spoke aloud only for my benefit.
After another warm smile for me, Carlisle left the room.
I stared at the little picture of Carlisle's hometown for a long moment.
"What happened then?" I finally asked, staring up at Edward, who was watching me. "When he realized
what had happened to him?"
He glanced back to the paintings, and I looked to see which image caught his interest now. It was a
larger landscape in dull fall colors an empty, shadowed meadow in a forest, with a craggy peak in the
distance.
"When he knew what he had become," Edward said quietly, "he rebelled against it. He tried to destroy
himself. But that's not easily done."
"How?" I didn't mean to say it aloud, but the word broke through my shock.
"He jumped from great heights," Edward told me, his voice impassive. "He tried to drown himself in the
ocean& but he was young to the new life, and very strong. It is amazing that he was able to resist&
feeding& while he was still so new. The instinct is more powerful then, it takes over everything. But he
was so repelled by himself that he had the strength to try to kill himself with starvation."
"Is that possible?" My voice was faint.
"No, there are very few ways we can be killed."
I opened my mouth to ask, but he spoke before I could.
"So he grew very hungry, and eventually weak. He strayed as far as he could from the human populace,
recognizing that his willpower was weakening, too. For months he wandered by night, seeking the
loneliest places, loathing himself.
"One night, a herd of deer passed his hiding place. He was so wild with thirst that he attacked without a
thought. His strength returned and he realized there was an alternative to being the vile monster he feared.
Had he not eaten venison in his former life? Over the next months his new philosophy was born. He
could exist without being a demon. He found himself again.
"He began to make better use of his time. He'd always been intelligent, eager to learn. Now he had
unlimited time before him. He studied by night, planned by day. He swam to France and "
"He swam to France?"
"People swim the Channel all the time, Bella," he reminded me patiently.
"That's true, I guess. It just sounded funny in that context. Go on."
"Swimming is easy for us "
"Everything is easy for you," I griped.
He waited, his expression amused.
"I won't interrupt again, I promise."
He chuckled darkly, and finished his sentence. "Because, technically, we don't need to breathe."
"You "
"No, no, you promised." He laughed, putting his cold finger lightly to my lips. "Do you want to hear the
story or not?"
"You can't spring something like that on me, and then expect me not to say anything," I mumbled against
his finger.
He lifted his hand, moving it to rest against my neck. The speed of my heart reacted to that, but I
persisted.
"You don't have to breathe?" I demanded.
"No, it's not necessary. Just a habit." He shrugged.
"How long can you go& without breathing?"
"Indefinitely, I suppose; I don't know. It gets a bit uncomfortable being without a sense of smell."
"A bit uncomfortable," I echoed.
I wasn't paying attention to my own expression, but something in it made him grow somber. His hand
dropped to his side and he stood very still, his eyes intent on my face. The silence lengthened. His
features were immobile as stone.
"What is it?" I whispered, touching his frozen face.
His face softened under my hand, and he sighed. "I keep waiting for it to happen."
"For what to happen?"
"I know that at some point, something I tell you or something you see is going to be too much. And then
you'll run away from me, screaming as you go." He smiled half a smile, but his eyes were serious. "I won't
stop you. I want this to happen, because I want you to be safe. And yet, I want to be with you. The two
desires are impossible to reconcile& " He trailed off, staring at my face. Waiting.
"I'm not running anywhere," I promised.
"We'll see," he said, smiling again.
I frowned at him. "So, go on Carlisle was swimming to France."
He paused, getting back into his story. Reflexively, his eyes flickered to another picture the most
colorful of them all, the most ornately framed, and the largest; it was twice as wide as the door it hung
next to. The canvas overflowed with bright figures in swirling robes, writhing around long pillars and off
marbled balconies. I couldn't tell if it represented Greek mythology, or if the characters floating in the
clouds above were meant to be biblical.
"Carlisle swam to France, and continued on through Europe, to the universities there. By night he studied
music, science, medicine and found his calling, his penance, in that, in saving human lives." His
expression became awed, almost reverent. "I can't adequately describe the struggle; it took Carlisle two
centuries of torturous effort to perfect his self-control. Now he is all but immune to the scent of human
blood, and he is able to do the work he loves without agony. He finds a great deal of peace there, at the
hospital& " Edward stared off into space for a long moment. Suddenly he seemed to recall his purpose.
He tapped his finger against the huge painting in front of us.
"He was studying in Italy when he discovered the others there. They were much more civilized and
educated than the wraiths of the London sewers."
He touched a comparatively sedate quartet of figures painted on the highest balcony, looking down
calmly on the mayhem below them. I examined the grouping carefully and realized, with a startled laugh,
that I recognized the golden-haired man.
"Solimena was greatly inspired by Carlisle's friends. He often painted them as gods," Edward chuckled.
"Aro, Marcus, Caius," he said, indicating the other three, two black-haired, one snowy-white. "Nighttime
patrons of the arts." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]