He only let me listen to the Nocturnes. If it was Rachmaninoff, with the loud pounding chords, everyone was supposed to stay away. Joplin, Esme was allowed to come and stand behind him with her hands on his shoulders, and run her fingers through his hair like he was a little boy. Mozart and Hayden (who I didn’t know before I knew Edward, but who I learned), those were okay for everyone to hear, as long as we kept our distance.
But the Nocturnes, I knew, I was allowed to sit on the bench and watch. The way his fingers moved over the keys, the way his head rocked toward the keyboard and then away from it, like it required his entire body to play.
It’s a good thing that vampire minds can go so many directions at once, because it’s necessary. When I get a vision, I don’t get a choice about whether or not I see it; it’s always there.
Carlisle decides to come downstairs and announces he’s going to build a fire. Rosalie decides to thumb through the automotive catalog. That makes Esme think of something she wanted from Sears. She moves the flowers aside on the kitchen table to make room for the catalog.
I see all of it, like a ticker tape machine, and I sit there, waiting for my stock to turn up. Waiting for the part that involves me, or the part that I need to change.
Esme closes the catalog.
“It’s quiet in here,” she says, and she looks pointedly at Edward.
And Edward takes the hint, and stands up, and wanders toward the piano.
He starts to play Chopin.
In my mind, I quietly cheered.
Across the room, Edward looked up.
And then Carlisle came down the stairs.
“I think I’m going to build a fire,” he said.