He led me back to the room that he'd pointed out as Carlisle's office. Hepaused outside the door for an instant.

　　"Come in," Carlisle's voice invited.

　　Edward opened the door to a high-ceilinged room with tall, west-facingwindows. The walls were paneled again, in a darker wood — where they werevisible. Most of the wall space was taken up by towering bookshelves thatreached high above my head and held more books than I'd ever seen outsidea library.

　　Carlisle sat behind a huge mahogany desk in a leather chair. He was justplacing a bookmark in the pages of the thick volume he held. The room washow I'd always imagined a college dean's would look — only Carlislelooked too young to fit the part.

　　"What can I do for you?" he asked us pleasantly, rising from his seat.

　　"I wanted to show Bella some of our history," Edward said. "Well, yourhistory, actually.""We didn't mean to disturb you," I apologized.

　　"Not at all. Where are you going to start?""The Waggoner," Edward replied, placing one hand lightly on my shoulderand spinning me around to look back toward the door we'd just comethrough. Every time he touched me, in even the most casual way, my hearthad an audible reaction. It was more embarrassing with Carlisle there.

　　The wall we faced now was different from the others. Instead ofbookshelves, this wall was crowded with framed pictures of all sizes,some in vibrant colors, others dull monochromes. I searched for somelogic, some binding motif the collection had in common, but I foundnothing in my hasty examination.

　　Edward pulled me toward the far left side, standing me in front of asmall square oil painting in a plain wooden frame. This one did not standout among the bigger and brighter pieces; painted in varying tones ofsepia, it depicted a miniature city full of steeply slanted roofs, withthin spires atop a few scattered towers. A wide river filled theforeground, crossed by a bridge covered with structures that looked liketiny cathedrals.

　　"London in the sixteen-fifties," Edward said.

　　"The London of my youth," Carlisle added, from a few feet behind us. Iflinched; I hadn't heard him approach. Edward squeezed my hand.

　　"Will you tell the story?" Edward asked. I twisted a little to seeCarlisle's reaction.

　　He met my glance and smiled. "I would," he replied. "But I'm actuallyrunning a bit late. The hospital called this morning — Dr. Snow is takinga 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 thetown doctor stuck in the middle of a discussion of his early days inseventeenth-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 waswatching me. "When he realized what had happened to him?"He glanced back to the paintings, and I looked to see which image caughthis interest now. It was a larger landscape in dull fall colors — anempty, shadowed meadow in a forest, with a craggy peak in the distance.

　　"When he knew what he had become," Edward said quietly, "he rebelledagainst 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. "Hetried 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… whilehe was still so new. The instinct is more powerful then, it takes overeverything. But he was so repelled by himself that he had the strength totry 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 hecould from the human populace, recognizing that his willpower wasweakening, too. For months he wandered by night, seeking the loneliestplaces, loathing himself.

　　"One night, a herd of deer passed his hiding place. He was so wild withthirst that he attacked without a thought. His strength returned and herealized 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 newphilosophy was born. He could exist without being a demon. He foundhimself 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 bynight, 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, wedon't need to breathe.""You —""No, no, you promised." He laughed, putting his cold finger lightly to mylips. "Do you want to hear the story or not?""You can't spring something like that on me, and then expect me not tosay anything," I mumbled against his finger.

　　He lifted his hand, moving it to rest against my neck. The speed of myheart 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 madehim grow somber. His hand dropped to his side and he stood very still,his eyes intent on my face. The silence lengthened. His features wereimmobile 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 tohappen.""For what to happen?""I know that at some point, something I tell you or something you see isgoing to be too much. And then you'll run away from me, screaming as yougo." 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, Iwant to be with you. The two desires are impossible to reconcile…" Hetrailed 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 flickeredto another picture — the most colorful of them all, the most ornatelyframed, and the largest; it was twice as wide as the door it hung nextto. The canvas overflowed with bright figures in swirling robes, writhingaround long pillars and off marbled balconies. I couldn't tell if itrepresented Greek mythology, or if the characters floating in the cloudsabove were meant to be biblical.

　　"Carlisle swam to France, and continued on through Europe, to theuniversities there. By night he studied music, science, medicine — andfound his calling, his penance, in that, in saving human lives." Hisexpression became awed, almost reverent. "I can't adequately describe thestruggle; it took Carlisle two centuries of torturous effort to perfecthis 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 greatdeal of peace there, at the hospital…" Edward stared off into space for along moment. Suddenly he seemed to recall his purpose. He tapped hisfinger against the huge painting in front of us.

　　"He was studying in Italy when he discovered the others there. They weremuch more civilized and educated than the wraiths of the London sewers."He touched a comparatively sedate quartet of figures painted on thehighest balcony, looking down calmly on the mayhem below them. I examinedthe grouping carefully and realized, with a startled laugh, that Irecognized the golden-haired man.

　　"Solimena was greatly inspired by Carlisle's friends. He often paintedthem as gods," Edward chuckled. "Aro, Marcus, Caius," he said, indicatingthe other three, two black-haired, one snowy-white. "Nighttime patrons ofthe arts.""What happened to them?" I wondered aloud, my fingertip hovering acentimeter from the figures on the canvas.

　　"They're still there." He shrugged. "As they have been for who knows howmany millennia. Carlisle stayed with them only for a short time, just afew decades. He greatly admired their civility, their refinement, butthey persisted in trying to cure his aversion to 'his natural foodsource,' as they called it. They tried to persuade him, and he tried topersuade them, to no avail. At that point, Carlisle decided to try theNew World. He dreamed of finding others like himself. He was very lonely,you see.

　　"He didn't find anyone for a long time. But, as monsters became the stuffof fairy tales, he found he could interact............