*by Stephenie Meyer*
TWILIGHT - chapter 15 - THE CULLENS
"So what was Carlisle telling tu before?"
His eyebrows pulled together. "You noticed that, did you?"
I shrugged. "Of course."
He looked at me thoughtfully for a few segundos before answering. "He wanted to tell me some news - he didn't know if it was something I would share with you."
"Will you?"
"I have to, because I'm going to be a little... overbearingly protective over the siguiente few days - o weeks - and I wouldn't want tu to think I'm naturally a tyrant."
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong, exactly. Alice just sees some visitors coming soon. They know we're here, and they're curious."
"Visitors?"
"Yes... wel, they aren't like us, of course - in their hunting habits, I mean. They probably won't come into town at all, but I'm certainly not going to let tu out of my sight till they're gone."
I shivered.
"Finally, a rational response!" he murmured. "I was beginning to think tu had no sense of self-preservation at all."
I let that one pass, looking away, my eyes wandering again around the spacious room.
He followed my gaze. "Not what tu expected, is it?" he asked, his voice smug.
"No," I admitted.
"No coffins, no piled skulls in the corner; I don't even think we have cobwebs... what a disappointment this must be for you," he continued slyly.
I ignored his teasing. "It's so light... so open."
He was más serious when he answered. "It's the one place we never have to hide."
The song he was still playing, my song, drifted to an end, the final chords shifting to a más melancholy key. The last note hovered poignantly in the silence.
"Thank you," I murmured. I realized there were tears in my eyes. I dabbed them, embarrassed.
He touched he corner of my eye, tapping one I missed. He lifted his finger, examining the drop of moisture broodingly. Then, so quickly I couldn't be positive that he really did, he put his finger to his mouth to taste it.
I looked at his questioningly, and he gazed back for a long moment before he finally smiled.
"Do tu want to see the rest of the house?"
"No coffins?" I verified, the sarcasm in my voice not entirely masking the slight but genuine anxiety I felt.
He laughed, taking my hand, leading me away from the piano.
"No coffins," he promised.
We walked up the massive staircase, my hand trailing along the satin-smooth rail. The long hall at the parte superior, arriba of the stairs was paneled with a honey-colored wood, the same as the florboards.
"Rosalie and Emmett's room... Carlisle's office... Alice's room..." He gestured as he led me past the doors.
He would have continued, but I stopped dead at the end of the hall, staring incredulously at the ornament hanging on the muro above my head. Edward chuckled at my bewildered expression.
"You can laugh," he said. "It is sort of ironic."
I didn't laught. My hand raised automatically, one finger extended as if to touch the large wooden cross, it's dark patina contrasting with the lighter tone of the wall. I didn't touch it, though I was curious if the aged wood would feel as silky as it looked.
"It must be very old," I guessed.
He shrugged. "Early sixteen-thirties, más o less."
I looked away from the cruzar, cruz to stare at him.
"Why do tu keep this here?" I wondered.
"Nostalgia. It belonged to Carlisle's father."
"He collected antiques?" I suggested doubtfully.
"No. He carved this himself. It hung on the muro above the pulpit in the vicarage where he preached."
I wasn't sure if my face betrayed my shock, but I returned to gazing at the simple, ancient cross, just in case. I quickly did the mental math; the cruzar, cruz was over three hundred and seventy years old. The silence stretched on as I struggled to envolver, abrigo my mind around the concept of so many years.
"Are tu all right?" He sounded worried.
"How old is Carlisle?" I asked quietly, ignoring his question, still staring up.
"He just celebrated his three hundred and sixy-second birthday," Edward said. I looked back at him, a million preguntas in my eyes.
He watched me carefully as he spoke.
"Carlisle was born in London, in the sixteen-forties, he belives. Time wasn't marked as accurately then, for the common people anyway. It was just before Cromwell's rule, though."
I kept my face composed, aware of his scrutiny as I listened. It was easier if I didn't try to believe.
"He was the only son of an Anglican pastor. His mother died giving birth to him. His father was an intolerant man. As the Protestants came into power, he was enthusiastic in his presecution of Roman Catholics and other religions. He also believed very strongly on the reality of evil. He led hunts for witches, werewolves... and vampires." I grew very still at the word. I'm sure he noticed, but he went on without pausing.
"The burned a lot of innocent people - o course the real creatures that he sought were not so easy to catch.
"When the pastor grew old, he placed his obedient son in charge of the raids. At first Carlisle was a diappointment; he was not quick to accuse, to see demons where they did not exists. But he was persistent, and más clever than his father. He actually discovered a coven of true vampiros that lived hidden in the sewers of the city, only coming out por night to hunt. In those days, that was the way many lived.
"The people gathered their pitchforks and torches, of course" - his brief laugh was darker now - "and waited where Carlisle had seen the monsters exit into the street. Eventually one emerged."
His voice was very quiet; I strained to catch the words.
"He must have been ancient, and weak with hunger. Carlisle heard him call out in Latin to the others when he caught the scent of the mob. He ran through the streets, and Carlisle - he was twenty-three and very fast - was in the lead of the pursuit. The creature could have easily outrun them, but Carlisle thinks he was too hungry, so he turned and attacked. He fell on Carlisle first, but the others were close behind, and he turned to defend himself. He killed two men, and made off with a third, leaving Carlisle bleeding in the street."
He paused. I could sense he was editing something, keeping something from me.
"Carlisle knew what his father would do. The bodies would be burned - anything infected por the monster must be destroyed. Carlisle acted instictively to save his own life. He crawled away from the alley while the mob followed the fiend and his victim. He his in a cellar, buried himself in rotting potatoes for three days. It was a miracle he was able to keep silent, to stay undiscovered.
"It was over then, and he realized what he had become."
I'm not sure what my face was revealing, but he suddenly broke off.
"How are tu feeling?" he asked.
"I'm fine," I assured him. And, though I bit my lip in hesitation, he must have seen the curiosity burning in my eyes.
He smiled. "I expect tu have a few más preguntas for me."
"A few."
His smile widened over his brilliant teeth. He started back down the hall, pulling me along por the hand. "Come on, then," he encouraged. "I'll mostrar you."
TWILIGHT - chapter 15 - THE CULLENS
"So what was Carlisle telling tu before?"
His eyebrows pulled together. "You noticed that, did you?"
I shrugged. "Of course."
He looked at me thoughtfully for a few segundos before answering. "He wanted to tell me some news - he didn't know if it was something I would share with you."
"Will you?"
"I have to, because I'm going to be a little... overbearingly protective over the siguiente few days - o weeks - and I wouldn't want tu to think I'm naturally a tyrant."
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong, exactly. Alice just sees some visitors coming soon. They know we're here, and they're curious."
"Visitors?"
"Yes... wel, they aren't like us, of course - in their hunting habits, I mean. They probably won't come into town at all, but I'm certainly not going to let tu out of my sight till they're gone."
I shivered.
"Finally, a rational response!" he murmured. "I was beginning to think tu had no sense of self-preservation at all."
I let that one pass, looking away, my eyes wandering again around the spacious room.
He followed my gaze. "Not what tu expected, is it?" he asked, his voice smug.
"No," I admitted.
"No coffins, no piled skulls in the corner; I don't even think we have cobwebs... what a disappointment this must be for you," he continued slyly.
I ignored his teasing. "It's so light... so open."
He was más serious when he answered. "It's the one place we never have to hide."
The song he was still playing, my song, drifted to an end, the final chords shifting to a más melancholy key. The last note hovered poignantly in the silence.
"Thank you," I murmured. I realized there were tears in my eyes. I dabbed them, embarrassed.
He touched he corner of my eye, tapping one I missed. He lifted his finger, examining the drop of moisture broodingly. Then, so quickly I couldn't be positive that he really did, he put his finger to his mouth to taste it.
I looked at his questioningly, and he gazed back for a long moment before he finally smiled.
"Do tu want to see the rest of the house?"
"No coffins?" I verified, the sarcasm in my voice not entirely masking the slight but genuine anxiety I felt.
He laughed, taking my hand, leading me away from the piano.
"No coffins," he promised.
We walked up the massive staircase, my hand trailing along the satin-smooth rail. The long hall at the parte superior, arriba of the stairs was paneled with a honey-colored wood, the same as the florboards.
"Rosalie and Emmett's room... Carlisle's office... Alice's room..." He gestured as he led me past the doors.
He would have continued, but I stopped dead at the end of the hall, staring incredulously at the ornament hanging on the muro above my head. Edward chuckled at my bewildered expression.
"You can laugh," he said. "It is sort of ironic."
I didn't laught. My hand raised automatically, one finger extended as if to touch the large wooden cross, it's dark patina contrasting with the lighter tone of the wall. I didn't touch it, though I was curious if the aged wood would feel as silky as it looked.
"It must be very old," I guessed.
He shrugged. "Early sixteen-thirties, más o less."
I looked away from the cruzar, cruz to stare at him.
"Why do tu keep this here?" I wondered.
"Nostalgia. It belonged to Carlisle's father."
"He collected antiques?" I suggested doubtfully.
"No. He carved this himself. It hung on the muro above the pulpit in the vicarage where he preached."
I wasn't sure if my face betrayed my shock, but I returned to gazing at the simple, ancient cross, just in case. I quickly did the mental math; the cruzar, cruz was over three hundred and seventy years old. The silence stretched on as I struggled to envolver, abrigo my mind around the concept of so many years.
"Are tu all right?" He sounded worried.
"How old is Carlisle?" I asked quietly, ignoring his question, still staring up.
"He just celebrated his three hundred and sixy-second birthday," Edward said. I looked back at him, a million preguntas in my eyes.
He watched me carefully as he spoke.
"Carlisle was born in London, in the sixteen-forties, he belives. Time wasn't marked as accurately then, for the common people anyway. It was just before Cromwell's rule, though."
I kept my face composed, aware of his scrutiny as I listened. It was easier if I didn't try to believe.
"He was the only son of an Anglican pastor. His mother died giving birth to him. His father was an intolerant man. As the Protestants came into power, he was enthusiastic in his presecution of Roman Catholics and other religions. He also believed very strongly on the reality of evil. He led hunts for witches, werewolves... and vampires." I grew very still at the word. I'm sure he noticed, but he went on without pausing.
"The burned a lot of innocent people - o course the real creatures that he sought were not so easy to catch.
"When the pastor grew old, he placed his obedient son in charge of the raids. At first Carlisle was a diappointment; he was not quick to accuse, to see demons where they did not exists. But he was persistent, and más clever than his father. He actually discovered a coven of true vampiros that lived hidden in the sewers of the city, only coming out por night to hunt. In those days, that was the way many lived.
"The people gathered their pitchforks and torches, of course" - his brief laugh was darker now - "and waited where Carlisle had seen the monsters exit into the street. Eventually one emerged."
His voice was very quiet; I strained to catch the words.
"He must have been ancient, and weak with hunger. Carlisle heard him call out in Latin to the others when he caught the scent of the mob. He ran through the streets, and Carlisle - he was twenty-three and very fast - was in the lead of the pursuit. The creature could have easily outrun them, but Carlisle thinks he was too hungry, so he turned and attacked. He fell on Carlisle first, but the others were close behind, and he turned to defend himself. He killed two men, and made off with a third, leaving Carlisle bleeding in the street."
He paused. I could sense he was editing something, keeping something from me.
"Carlisle knew what his father would do. The bodies would be burned - anything infected por the monster must be destroyed. Carlisle acted instictively to save his own life. He crawled away from the alley while the mob followed the fiend and his victim. He his in a cellar, buried himself in rotting potatoes for three days. It was a miracle he was able to keep silent, to stay undiscovered.
"It was over then, and he realized what he had become."
I'm not sure what my face was revealing, but he suddenly broke off.
"How are tu feeling?" he asked.
"I'm fine," I assured him. And, though I bit my lip in hesitation, he must have seen the curiosity burning in my eyes.
He smiled. "I expect tu have a few más preguntas for me."
"A few."
His smile widened over his brilliant teeth. He started back down the hall, pulling me along por the hand. "Come on, then," he encouraged. "I'll mostrar you."
