Writings

Ages and ages and AGES ago, a reader by the name of sigh_for_sigh made a comment in one of her reviews on Twilighted that my one-shots were mostly very happy and not very angst-filled. Of course, this was back when my one-shot repertoire was “The Talk,” “Form 1040,” and “The Family Cullen.”

This made me think. I don’t consider myself as one who leans one way or the other when it comes to drama or cheer; I try in my writing to balance whatever is needed for that particular story and that particular character in that moment. But it made me realize that the reason for the cheerfulness was the nature of the character I was writing. My comment in return was that I was writing Carlisle, and that one, these one-shots take place when he is at his most content, surrounded by his family, and two, it takes a very long time to crack Carlisle up.

Carlisle is one of the steadiest characters I’ve ever written. In a way, even though I find Edward’s voice harder to channel, he is a bit more like the young adult protagonists I usually write. Impetuous, mercurial, easily agitated. As an author, this makes life easy—if your character is easily worked up, you can throw them curve balls and let them make decisions which alter the plot quickly.

This is not so with Carlisle. Carlisle is an over-thinker, a man who examines every angle, and who tends to simmer before becoming too angry, or sad. So to take Carlisle on a journey that results in his making a rash decision—even when his journey begins nearly at his breaking point!—takes time. And of course, one of the issues with this decision is that while it is rash in a way (even to the point that he will describe it as such to Bella almost ninety years later) it is also completely inevitable.

But it takes time to take him to the brink.

I owe great thanks to Openhome on this one (I always do, but this one especially) for helping me trim this one down to something with actual flow.

As an extra, I found myself listening to a single song while doing the edits on this chapter. I don’t usually have soundtracks, and I’m easily annoyed by authors who suggest songs that go with their chapters, so this is somewhat hypocritical of me, but if you so choose, you can hop over to my tumblr page and experience it for yourself.

Happy Reading.

London, England
June, 1667

The crowds of Londoners were at their thickest at dusk—commoners coming from market, tradesmen coming home from their work, and of course all those who catered to them: boys hawking pies, tinkers, minstrels, whores. William averted his eyes from all of this as he made his way down the crowded streets.

Perhaps staying indoors for the rest of what would assuredly be a short life would not be a terrible idea.

Three hours earlier he’d been at the gaol in Southwark, being hissed at by the woman from Ratcliffe street. Questioning of her neighbors and of William’s barber confirmed the suspicious activities—a pregnant woman with whom the widow had argued had lost her quick baby, a man who stepped accidentally onto the widow’s yard developed boils. After three nights of wakefulness, she had confessed her beliefs and relinquished her familiar, a tawny, yellow-eyed cat, which had at once been put to death.

Convincing the judge to remand her to prison had been a simple matter, and a small smile spread across William’s face as he thought on it. It would be his first trial in months, and he would bring down the woman and her coven.

Impending death would not keep him from his work.

William experienced an odd surge of energy to his step these last few days. Perhaps the taking of his blood was working, or perhaps it was simply that to do this, to return to God’s work, brought him healing beyond what a mortal barber-surgeon might offer. It had been a great deal of time since his raids had been common, despite his son’s irreverent accusations. Hunting the possessed and the servants of evil had gone down with Cromwell; long past were days when men like Matthew Hopkins had ruled the night and purified the city.

Hopkins called himself the Witchfinder General. He, too, had been the son of a minister. And though William thought the moniker was a bit prideful on Hopkins’s part, a part of him wished his own son had anywhere near that zeal.

But he did not. And so William worked alone.

The girl from Ratcliffe street lived in the next parish over, the reason he had never seen her in his church. But Londoners were nothing if not gossips, and gaining information about another family was simple, especially for a man of the cloth. With nothing more than the last name and her description, he had traced her to her address several neighborhoods to the west. Her mother had been made a widow by the plague; the man of the household was survived by two sons, one older and one younger than the girl.

Whether the girl had been truthful about her betrothal would have to be seen.

“Aye, Reverend!” a voice called, cutting through the clattering of wheels and hooves, the shoes scuffling against the street, and the shouts of those peddling their wares and services. “What brings you this evening?”

William tipped his hat in the direction of Daniel Newcomb, a man of his own parish. He was a young husband, a butcher by trade.

“A search,” he said. “I come to rout evil where it may lie.”

“To rout evil?” The man arched an eyebrow. “I might not ask in what form.”

“Women who consort in the night,” William answered firmly, and the other man nodded.

“Understood,” he said. “I am on my way home this evening. Johanna awaits with her takings from today’s market.”

Johanna was Daniel’s wife. William had watched her lately as she grew with their third child.

“Johanna will deliver soon, will she not?”

“We expect soon enough.” Daniel beamed. “Perhaps a daughter to balance our sons and to help care for our home. She kicks less than her brothers.”

William offered a small smile. “Excellent, then. I shall keep your family in my prayers. We’ll baptize the child when she arrives.”

“Thank you, Reverend.” The smile was returned. “I should bid you on your way.”

William nodded. “Good evening, Daniel.”

The other man took a few steps, and then turned, remembering something. “If it is also your son you seek, I saw him not so long ago near the neighborhood market.”

His son?

“Your pardon?”

Daniel gestured in the vicinity of where William planned to go. “That direction. He was with his woman and their chaperone.”

His woman?

Trying not to let the utter surprise of these words show on his face, William nodded. “Thank you for alerting me. I will see if I might find him.”

The man smiled. “Good evening, Reverend.”

“Good evening to you, also.”

Now William’s pace quickened. Could what the Newcomb man said be true? If his son courted a woman, it would explain much about his behavior of late; his strange peacefulness, the way he seemed never to remain at the vicarage after finishing his chores. And his sudden desire to attend the seminary…at once, it made sense.

“I would wish to raise my family outside of London,” the younger Cullen had said.

His family.

Was it possible the boy was already in the process of forming it?

William’s stomach twisted with an odd twinge of…guilt? Anticipation? He wasn’t certain. If his son were indeed courting a woman, it was cause for celebration. He would be cared for, even in William’s absence. And if the prospect of marriage had brought the boy around to the consideration of seminary, to the work of God…William couldn’t help but beam. If there was a better sign that his child was one of the Chosen, he wasn’t sure what that sign might be.

A wife. Children. Many children, the way William and Sarah had planned. And his son would not suffer alone for so many years before coming to find his wife, as William had. No, he would marry now, become a father right away. A warmth spread from what seemed William’s very center. It was possible that he might hold his son’s son before his eyes closed on this world.

He could swear that he felt his body cease its tremors just at the thought.

You’ll marry, William, he thought, and your wedded bliss will heal us both.

So caught up in thought, William found his legs carried him the rest of the way through the less-familiar neighborhood, to the street to which he’d been directed. Like much of London, the street here was narrow, with alleyways twisting off it like the legs of a spider, the houses so close together they blocked out the orange glow of the sinking sun. The house where the girl supposedly lived was unremarkable, a narrow two-story which jutted out over the crowded street. William had to push his way past several who came the other way in order to reach its door.

There was no knocker, and the sound of his fist rapping on the door was damped by the passing crowd.

He knocked again.

It took a long moment for the door to swing open, revealing a woman who might have been near William’s age. The widow, no doubt. Her hair greyed at the temples, but otherwise was a strangely familiar shade of chestnut.

“May I help you?” she asked.

“Good evening, Missus Bradshawe. My name is Reverend William Cullen; I am the rector of St. Helen’s Aldgate.”

Her eyebrows raised. “You are Carlisle’s father.”

He nearly stepped back in surprise. “My son is William Carlisle, yes,” he answered tentatively.

The woman frowned. “You do not look like him.”

“He favors his mother.” An understatement. The boy exuded Sarah’s countenance in every plane of his body.

For a long moment, the woman did not respond, simply studying William with a hard gaze. He shifted his weight nervously. Usually, when he came to make an accusation, he was accompanied by the judge, and sometimes some of his parishioners, as well. But fervor had fallen steadily during the rule of Cromwell; it was as though the people of London no longer cared if evil lived among them. Even Hopkins had long since been disgraced.

And so that left William standing alone on the doorstep, being made uncomfortable by this woman and her uncanny knowledge of his son’s appearance.

He cleared his throat. “How is it that you know my son?”

If it were possible, the woman’s face dropped into an even deeper frown. “What is it that brings you here, Reverend Cullen? Surely it is not Carlisle, as you seem to be unaware that I had made his acquaintance.”

He tipped his hat. “My apologies. I seek your daughter.” And perhaps he ought to question the widow herself—it was becoming perfectly apparent where the daughter had inherited her forthright cheek.

“For what reason?”

“Are you aware that your daughter visits a widow on Ratcliffe Street?”

A look of surprise passed over the woman’s face, but it was subdued quickly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I encountered your daughter visiting a widow on Ratcliffe some nights ago. Unchaparoned.”

A shrug. “Her brother was likely nearby. He frequents many pubs around the city.”

“I am certain she was alone, Madam.”

Mrs. Bradshawe cocked an eyebrow.

“And why, then, did you believe her to be there?”

“She visited another woman. A woman who has been taken to the prisons in Southwark, Mrs. Bradshawe. On charges of witchcraft.”

This, at last, drew a response. She took a staggering step backwards, and one hand flew to her heart. The color drained suddenly from her face.

“Witchcraft.”

It was a whisper.

“Yes.”

“You believe my Beth to be involved in witchcraft.”

William hesitated a short moment. If he couldn’t apprehend a woman right away, it was best to alarm her family as little as possible. He’d lost pursuits over the years as women fled to the country, to Scotland, even to France, out of his reach and never to be heard from again.

“I merely wish to question her about her acquaintance,” he said gently. “Of course it is necessary to rout the world of evil. To be certain to remove this woman from Ratcliffe Street, we must gather testimony from all with whom she consorts.” He didn’t bother to mention that the testimony from the neighbors, to say nothing of his own eyewitness testimony from the night at the barber-surgeon’s, would suffice handily.

“And what should I do?”

“Bring her to me,” William answered. “St. Helen’s Aldgate; the vicarage shares the churchyard. I will return tomorrow if you are unable to bring her by.”

The woman gulped and nodded.

“Good evening, Missus Bradshawe,” William said, tipping his hat to her. Then he thought once more. “And my goodwife?”

“Reverend?”

“You should pray for your daughter. I will also.”

A slow nod. “I will do that. Thank you.”

“Good evening to you.”

“Good evening.”

Then William turned and slid back out into the crowded streets. One less possessed soul. One less evil creature lurking in the neighborhoods of the city. One barrier removed in making this world a righteous world, one that would be welcoming to William’s child, his new wife, and whatever children they might have.

He smiled, and murmured a small prayer. “Lord, guide me on the path of thy choosing; strengthen me in my fight to bring righteousness to this realm.”

As though his prayer had been answered at once, he felt a sudden spring in his own step . He reached the main street, and turned himself back toward Aldgate, toward the church and his home.

Toward his son.

~||x||~

The dirt caught between Carlisle’s toes as he curled and uncurled them, but it felt good. The day was hot and humid, and the cool mud gave him some respite from the relentless heat.

Half the day had been spent in the carpentry workshop; Mister Tyne took in a large order for a staircase rail in one of the grander estates near Fleet Street, and Carlisle spent the better part of two days turning spindles at the lathe. But now he was free, and as was common for most of his evenings now, he was with Elizabeth.

A tiny cattle pasture jutted into Elizabeth’s neighborhood only a few streets from her home, and it provided just enough green space for Georgie to play, and for Carlisle and Elizabeth to enjoy each other’s company while her brother raced himself dizzy. The grass was soft and lush—the spring had been generous to London—and it felt wondrously comfortable beneath them.

“I do not believe I have seen thy feet before, Mister Cullen,” Elizabeth murmured. She, too, had doffed her shoes and sat in her hose beside him. He could see the graceful arch of her foot and the shapeliness of her legs. It was a sight far more enticing than any depicted in the bawdy poetry that Thomas had shown him over the years.

He laughed. “I suppose that is true enough. Do they meet thy expectations?”

Elizabeth leaned forward so that her hair fell over her shoulder as she pretended to scrutinize his legs.

“They have quite a bit more hair than I would have expected.”

Carlisle glanced at her, only to find her face held an entirely serious expression. But then it broke into a wide smile and she gave him a playful shove. They both began to laugh.

“I apologize that my feet do not meet with thy approval,” Carlisle answered a moment later, still laughing. “Shall I shave them?”

Elizabeth made a show of bending over his feet, leaning in to inspect them. “Perhaps not all of the hair,” she muttered just loudly enough for him to hear. “But right here.” She laid a hand on his right instep. “This part thou could cut a bit? It is nearly curly. Thine hair is not curly, why is the hair on thy feet?”

He shook his head, still laughing. Elizabeth did not lift her hand, however, instead caressing his foot for a moment. It felt wonderful.

Touching was still rare enough to be thrilling. As he had yet to reveal his courtship to his father, Carlisle had been unable to enjoy such rituals as bundling with Elizabeth, and all their moments of physical contact were stolen and brief.

He inched his right foot over to Elizabeth’s leg and tickled her ankle with his toes. She giggled, giving him a playful shove.

“Stop it, Carlisle,” she said, laughing. “That’s more than enough of your silliness.”

“I do nothing,” he replied, giving her a look of complete innocence and earning himself another shove.

Across the pasture, Georgie ran in circles, arms outstretched as he scared away a flock of songbirds. They seemed to be playing a game; the birds landed, Georgie would send them scattering about, and then the birds would simply land once more. Each time the birds took off in a flurry of feathers around him, Georgie let out a shrieking giggle, and then waited for them to land again before repeating the act.

“He does look as though he’s having fun,” Elizabeth said quietly, leaning in to Carlisle’s side and causing an odd chill of excitement to shoot down his spine.

“I remember those days,” Carlisle said quietly, not taking his eyes off Georgie. “Except that they were Katie’s hens I would send fluttering away. She disliked that so much—I remember being scolded every day.” He smiled. “Often through her paddle.”

Elizabeth laughed. “I have difficulty imagining you being so improper.”

“Impropriety furnishes the home of childhood,” he answered.

He gazed back out at Georgie, who’d temporarily given up chasing the birds and now lay on his back in the grass, staring up at the darkening evening sky.

Elizabeth followed his gaze. “That is true enough,” she said.

A hand shot out toward him before he had time to move away, and he suddenly found himself on the receiving end of a relentless tickling. He let out an undignified shriek, leaping to his feet and taking off at a run across the pasture. Elizabeth lit out after him only a second later. Together they ran across the pasture, scaring no small number of birds themselves, the grass and bare earth mashing beneath their feet. He was faster than she, and had the lead easily, but when he approached Georgie, he slowed, giving Elizabeth just enough time to reach out to him, throw her arms around his waist, and knock him off balance. They both tumbled into the grass, chests heaving with laughter.

“What was that about my impropriety, Miss Bradshawe?” Carlisle teased, causing a fresh round of laughter from them both.

Georgie appeared above them a second later, his small body casting an odd, long shadow over them both. He stood with his hands on his hips, his very best commanding look on his face.

“You act oddly,” he told them, his voice stern.

“We act oddly, brother?” Elizabeth grinned at him. “As I recall, we do not chase innocent birds into the sky.”

Carlisle grinned. “I shall show thee odd behavior.” In one motion, Carlisle threw his arms around Georgie’s knees, buckling them so that Georgie landed atop both of them, where he promptly fell under a four-handed tickling attack. It was only when Georgie’s laughter reached a pure, high-pitched shrieking that they relented, leaving him gasping for breath in their laps.

For a long moment, the three of them simply sat together, watching the shadows grow longer and the tiny herd of cattle ambling uncomfortably in the other end of the pasture.

“We ought to return to thy home,” Carlisle said at last.

“I wish I could stay out here,” came Georgie’s immediate reply.

Carlisle did also, though he was not nearly as free to whine his disappointment as the boy. Soon, his mind told him. Soon this will be the life you can lead.

And with greater freedom, also—he’d informed his father that he had no intention of serving the church at Aldgate, but that he would raise his family in the countryside, where his children would be healthier and he could enjoy the fresh air. It seemed the closer he came to marriage and to a family, the more London grated on him; the crime, the crowds, the filth. Every rat seemed a reason to get away; every time he was accosted by a tinker or a vagrant was one more link in his resolve to have his family grow up away from this.

“Carlisle?”

He shook his head, forcibly bringing himself back to the present. Elizabeth stared at him, a bemused smile on her face.

“Of what were you thinking?”

“Of us,” he answered. “Of our home, and our marriage.” Gazing down at Georgie, whose attention had been caught by the cows across the way, he added, “And our children.”

Elizabeth reached for his hand, squeezing it tightly. “Soon enough, Carlisle. Soon enough.” She laid her head on his shoulder, her hair tickling his neck and the sensitive spot at his ear.

“When will thou ask my brother?” she said a moment later.

“For thy hand?”

A nod.

His stomach twisted. Were he completely honest with himself, he had put this off. Christopher had joined them so rarely, and when he had, he had a tendency to disappear to the tavern and leave Elizabeth and Carlisle to wander alone. Whether this was indifference or trust, Carlisle wasn’t exactly certain.

But he had lain the groundwork, now, he thought. His father knew of his desire to go to seminary, and he would do so. Absent the plan to serve his father’s church, a life in the clergy seemed more appealing. He would make good wages; he could satisfy his love of carpentry by building in the church and in his parish; his family would be well looked-after, just as the Aldgate parish had looked after their widowed rector and his son.

Yes, he would give up the law. But, sitting here, in the waning daylight, with Elizabeth and Georgie, free to imagine this as not just an impermanent moment, but a lasting state of his life…it seemed fair.

Entirely fair.

His dreams were worth more than his pride, just as Thomas had said.

“Tonight,” he heard himself say, and the resolve in his own voice startled him.

“Tonight?”

“I will go to the coffee house, after dark. Christopher is almost unfailingly there. The crowd will help pressure him to say yes.”

“Fear you that he will say no?”

Carlisle grinned. “I merely feel it best to give it the best possible chance.”

“My brother will be grateful to be rid of me. He will beg thee to marry me as soon as thou can.” Elizabeth stood, tugging Carlisle, and by extension, Georgie to their feet. She took Carlisle’s hand in hers, laying her other hand firmly on Georgie’s shoulders.

Squeezing her hand, Carlisle added, “Your brother’s loss is certainly my gain.”

Elizabeth grinned at him, and pecked his cheek, causing him to blush red.

“My gain also,” she answered, and together they began to walk toward her home.

~||x||~

It was several hours later, well after darkness had fallen, that Carlisle and Thomas made their way toward the coffee house. As he had such a short time before, Carlisle carried a letter in his breast pocket, one which seemed as though it might burn a hole—if not in the fabric, then perhaps in his skin itself.

Because this time, he asked for far more than mere permission to court.

“Thou acts like a frightened rabbit,” Thomas teased him, shoving him playfully, but with enough force that Carlisle nearly went spilling to the street.

He grit his teeth. “And I am certain thou were completely calm when thou asked for Anne?”

Thomas laughed. “I was a wreck, of course. But I had always assumed you to be more composed.”

Composed. Was that even possible in this situation?

To be sure, he had felt more composed as he and Elizabeth had walked so serenely back to her house after their evening in the paddock. But he couldn’t help but feel that something had gone awry since then.

“Her mother acted oddly, when we returned this evening,” he muttered, more to himself than anything, but Thomas answered nevertheless.

“Oddly?”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Bradshawe had treated him almost as her child from the day he’d first arrived with the initial letter for Christopher; from the moment she knew he had nursed at her sister’s breast, she seemed willing to accept him. She kissed him and hugged him easily, and greeted him joyously each time he turned up on her step.

But tonight, if anything, she had seemed wary of him. Her greeting had been stiff and strangely formal, and she’d seemed to gather Elizabeth and Georgie in as though she needed to protect them. They had been ushered quickly inside, and Elizabeth’s goodbye to Carlisle consisted of little more than a squeezed hand and a prolonged gaze.

“She took Elizabeth and Georgie into the house as though she feared me,” Carlisle answered.

“Is that so?” Thomas’s brow furrowed. “No one has any reason to fear thee.”

Carlisle rolled his eyes. “Why thank you. I am glad to know I am no formidable opponent.”

Thomas grinned. “I intended no offense, but now that you mention it…”

Carlisle shoved him, and they both laughed.

They walked several paces more before Thomas spoke.

“I wonder at what might have happened to cause her to behave in such a way?”

“I know not.” Well, he would ask. They would reach the coffee house, he would speak to Christopher, deliver the letter, and perhaps inquire as to the behavior of Mrs. Bradshawe. And if nothing else, he would see Elizabeth soon enough and could ask her himself.

The streets were nearly empty at this time of night, and almost completely dark, save for the handful of taverns and lodges which hung lamps from their door posts. The light spilled into the street at odd intervals, casting shadows in different directions. Muffled sound issued from the taverns; drunken singing, snippets of conversations, tankards heavy on wooden bars.

The coffee house, like the taverns, hung a lamp outside its door, and the light from the lamps inside leaked invitingly through the windows. When Carlisle paused a moment before the coffee house’s door, Thomas stopped short also. They peered through the windows, and could see Christopher sitting there with a group of his friends, his dark hair reaching down to his shoulders.

Thomas nudged Carlisle. “Have you the letter, Sexton?”

He patted his breast pocket. “I have.”

Thomas grinned. “Doest thou need a drink? Perhaps we ought to have stopped at the tavern first.”

Carlisle blushed, but his heart was racing. “I shall be fine,” he attempted to answer, but what came out was more of a squeak.

More laughter from Thomas, and then a firm clap on the shoulder. “Let us go in, then, Friend.”

The coffee house was alive with sound; voices in heated debate, rustling newspaper, the scraping of stools against the wooden floor. Coffee cups clinked against one another and the tables. There was laughter.

But as Thomas and Carlisle entered, the entire room fell silent. Newspapers dropped. Cups clattered to the table. Voices fell to whispers.

“What…” Thomas barely managed to whisper, before a single stool two tables over was shoved so firmly it screeched and fell to the ground with a loud thwack.

Christopher Bradshawe was shorter and skinnier than Carlisle, and in a fight with adequate warning, there wouldn’t be much of a competition. But this wasn’t a fight, and there wasn’t adequate warning, and Carlisle had only barely managed to get out the words “Mister Bradshawe” before he found himself crashing backwards into a table, a stabbing pain in his jaw.

The table was sturdy and held his weight; the cups, however, were quite a bit more delicate. Behind him came the tinkering of broken china and the clatter of tin as it fell to the floor. His back soaked at once with spilled coffee, and it burned through his shirt to his skin.

And then there were men, dozens of them, it seemed, leaning over him. Someone tried to grab him but no, there was Christopher, standing over the table. The fists flew again, making a thick slapping sound as they made contact with Carlisle’s face. At once, Carlisle could see the hands were covered in blood—his? He drew a hand across his own lips and it came away drenched in red.

So he swung, and was rewarded with the solid THWOCK of his fist meeting flesh.

The coffee house exploded into noise. Christopher’s body was warm as it rolled over Carlisle’s and onto the floor, his blood spilling from his lip down Carlisle’s knuckles. Men shouted, some for help, some to egg them on.

“You bastard,” Christopher hollered, as he grabbed Carlisle’s shoulders, knocking him off balance and into a second table. More clattering cups. The reek of more spilled coffee.

“What?” Carlisle answered, but it was drowned out by the jeers of the crowd. He threw Christopher off him, and the other man tumbled into yet another table.

Some of the men grabbed Christopher’s arms, wrenching him up from the table and flinging him back across the room with such force that both he and Carlisle lost their balance and went careening across the floor. Carlisle felt his shoulders mash into the wood.

Finally he got a good look at the other man. Both were breathing heavily, their chests heaving as they lay sprawled on the coffee house floor. Blood and slobber and phlegm dripped from Christopher’s face; Carlisle could feel a spreading wetness on his own.

“Christopher…” Carlisle began, but he was cut off at once.

“You bastard,” the other man cried, his voice high-pitched and strangled. “My sister…”

His sister? Elizabeth?

“What…”

But he was once again cut off by a blow. This time it was to the side of his jaw, and he felt something there give way. His ears began to ring.

“You bastard, you bastard, you bastard!” Christopher screamed, each iteration of the insult punctuated by another blow. From somewhere, Carlisle could hear someone shouting for them to stop, but it sounded distant…

He lifted his arms to his face.

“Please,” someone whined, and it took Carlisle a moment to realize this sound had come from him.

The blows kept coming.

“My”—to his jaw—”sister”—his right ear—”is”—his temple—”not”—the cheekbone—”a”—his jaw again, was that his tooth loosened?—”witch!”

A witch?

The thought barely had time to register before the fist landed again squarely in the middle of Carlisle’s face. Something made an odd scrunching noise, and it his whole head became engulfed in a fiery pain. Fresh blood gushed over his lips and jaw. When he tried to turn himself over, he found his arms didn’t seem to answer.

“She’s…not…a witch,” he heard himself say feebly.

Then the sounds of the coffee house blended into a dull, ringing roar in his ears as everything went black.

~||x||~

Editorial note: Thanks to twitina’s daughter, K, for sharing with me exactly how it feels and sounds to have someone break your nose.

Chapter Notes

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(This note may be vaguely spoilerish, and so you may wish to read it after you read the chapter.)

You don’t go from a normal existence to hopelessness overnight.

This week, I finished a book, Thirteen Reasons Why, by Jay Asher. I highly recommend it; it’s a fabulous and very quick read. Its premise is that there is a teenage boy, Clay, who is sent the thirteen tapes recorded by a girl he crushed on, explaining her reasons for committing suicide, in thirteen stories revolving around thirteen of her peers. It’s a fascinating chronicle of how small things lead to terrible despair, and a highly addictive read. And, I think, this notion of how small things build feeds nicely into what is going on Stregoni.

Certainly, a number of things in Carlisle’s vampire existence led to the enduring loneliness and depression which he carries really all the way through the Twilight Saga (I believe it’s still evident in his actions in the four  canon books, despite his having gained his entire family by that time). But in order to understand Carlisle fully, we have to take time to stop and imagine what his human life was like as well.

Some other fanfic writers have chosen to give William Cullen (or whatever they choose to name the character, as “William” is my own invention) the burden of leading to Carlisle’s self-loathing, making him abusive and hateful toward his son. While I haven’t spared the character the kind of hatefulness that comes from narrow-minded thinking, I wanted a more multidimensional portrayal of who Carlisle’s father might have been—after all he was Carlisle’s role model of how to be a parent, and although he certainly changed many things, some he picked up from his own father.

But without William being deliberately a monster, then how did Carlisle’s human life contribute to the melancholy in which he lives the ensuing three centuries?

One reader of mine who has become a close friend over time, upon reading the first chapter in the 1667 timeline gchatted me shortly after she finished the chapter. When she was done reading the chapter and its tiny mention of Elizabeth Bradshawe, she told me exactly where this storyline was headed. One might think that when someone guesses your entire plot after one chapter it would be frustrating, but on the contrary, I was completely giddy. Because it was always my intention to lay the groundwork for this in such a way that the reader could see it coming…

…but that Carlisle never would.

Volterra
June 1789

“You could be a prince if you wished to be, Dottore.”

Martina laughed as she leaned over her cart. “This whole land would come together under you. I don’t doubt it. That smile—it is the kind of smile that gathers others.”

Carlisle looked away. “I would be a poor ruler,” he answered shyly. “I possess no ability to force others to do my will.”

“Except maybe this one,” Martina’s sister piped up, patting her belly. “When you give him things to make him quiet, he is quiet. And he doesn’t hurt me so much any longer. Well, aside from the fact that he’s strong.” She laughed.

The baby was close to being born, Carlisle knew, even though he’d had little experience with the phenomenon. But in the past several weeks Martina’s sister’s body had changed dramatically as her belly grew more and more taut. He’d kept up with the growing child, creating more and more of the willow bark tea, and preparations for poultices to ease the pains of her stretching skin. The others in the castle thought he was crazy—even Marcus—but it felt good to have someone he knew he was helping.

“You should feel this strong boy,” Martina said, and before he’d had a chance to step backward, Carlisle found his hand yanked forward by the wrist, his palm placed on the growing belly. He was rewarded with a firm kick-muted, yes, but still firm, a fascinating, tickling pressure across his palm.

He couldn’t help his smile.

“See?” Martina’s sister’s grin was even bigger. “He likes you. He is happy for what you do for us.”

“It is nothing,” Carlisle answered. “I am learning, just as much as you are.” And thank goodness this was her third child, as it meant that Carlisle had a far easier time learning from her.

She smiled, wagging a finger at him. “Well, please learn quickly, because he’ll come soon.”

Both women laughed.

Carlisle gulped.

He’d been researching childbirth for months now of course, even though all the while he prayed for an uneventful birth to which he would not be summoned. Was he ready? It was one thing to spend time up in his chambers at the castle, preparing salves and teas. It would be another to throw himself into childbirth, with its blood and birthing fluid and the demands of knowledge he did not yet possess.

And it was nearing the summer solstice—what if the child decided to make his appearance on a sunny day?

“I am certain this will be a healthy birth which will not require my intervention,” he said.

Martina’s sister shook her head. “Perhaps we’d wish you there, anyway, Dottore.”

He winced. “I am not a doctor, you know. I’ve not apprenticed.”

This time it was Martina who shook her head, and she came from behind her cart to lay a hand on Carlisle’s arm.

“You are better than a doctor,” she answered, smiling. “Doctors don’t laugh. And none of them are shy, or admit they might not be correct.”

Her sister nodded. “And that’s not you. You, Dottore, are human.”

Human?

His breath caught, even as he realized that of course she meant the term figuratively. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

“And as a human, you can’t have so much time for us,” Martina added. “I’m sure you have other things to take care of. Not the least of which being my sister’s further health.”

He nodded. “Be certain you rest,” he said. “The child won’t be born for some time yet, and it’s important that you be strong and rested for the birth.”

“Rest?” Martina’s sister grinned. “I have two other children. How I am supposed to rest?”

“Men,” Martina answered, rolling her eyes, and they both laughed.

Carlisle chuckled. “Perhaps we do have it too easy,” he added. “Nevertheless…”

“Rest,” came the answer from both of them. “I’ll do what I can.”

“I bid you a good afternoon.”

The women continued to laugh as he began to make his way back to the compound.

Human, he thought as he walked. Perhaps she was right. It was true that within the compound, laughter was scarce, at least, it was for him. Even Marcus seemed to grow increasingly aloof—their study sessions had grown shorter, the jovial nature all but disappeared. What laughter there was within the Volturi headquarters was mostly at Carlisle’s expense.

He gazed up at the walls as he walked, one thumb absently tracing the spot on his other palm where he’d felt the baby’s kick. There had been so much to take in, that first time he’d approached this place so many decades ago. The refinement, the civility; how so many of his kind could live here peacefully, without moving from place to place like a pack of wolves. He remembered stepping into the library the first time—he’d been in only a handful himself. That here, they had amassed a collection of volumes so extensive that it would rival any library in Europe…Carlisle’s excitement had been nearly uncontainable.

Yet it was Martina, her sister, the open market where people knew him, that made this place his home. It was the freedom to walk around on the overcast days, the ways in which he at last had learned to interact without fear.

And be called human…

It seemed only a few short minutes before he reached the compound’s alleyway doors and pressed them to admit himself into the dark underground tunnels which would lead him back to his own chambers. The compound was a labyrinth of staircases, rooms, hallways and tunnels, broken up only by the occasional courtyard. A winding set of stairs took him from the tunnel to the hallway nearest his own door. It was customary for him to go to the great chamber, to greet Aro and offer his palm, but today, he craved a moment alone with his own thoughts before they became the purview of someone else.

It wasn’t to be.

He’d barely managed to lay his bag on his desktop before a light breeze tickled the hairs on the back of his neck.

Aro was the tallest of the three brothers; part of what gave him such a commanding presence. His dark hair hung to his shoulders, billowing curtains of night framing an otherwise gaunt face. Little daylight made its way into Carlisle’s chambers, but the tiny sliver that did bounce through the window set Aro’s ruby eyes aflame.

Had Aro ever even been in his chambers alone before?

“Yes, Aro?” he managed.

“Alrigo informed me you had returned from your” —he gestured helplessly toward the table and the herbs— “errand.”

The word had an odd tone to it.

Carlisle nodded. “I have, indeed.”

“And how is the market this day?”

Did he wish to make small talk? Carlisle turned to face him fully.

“What is it you want of me?” He held out his left hand. Not the one where the baby had kicked, but the other. Aro took it, and for a moment, bowed his head as he evaluated all that had changed since the last time Carlisle had done this.

“Fascinating,” he murmured, making Carlisle wonder what it was he was seeing. The baby’s kick? The way Martina had called him human?

The other hand slid away after only a moment.

“These women,” Aro said. “They are your friends?”

Friends? Could he count them as such? His mind flashed instantly back several weeks, to the conversation with the sandy-haired colonist up in the Alpi.

“Friend,” Garrett called Carlisle.

“Clients,” he answered carefully. “They are clients.”

“The one with child is your patient, I feel. Or at least, she considers herself so.”

That much was true. But he didn’t have patients. He was no physician. Untrained. What skill he had was entirely based on trial and error. And it always would be—how would he ever learn alongside a human doctor? To resist the blood here, in the controlled confines of the castle, that was one thing.

He shrugged. “She allows me to experiment. Nothing more.”

Aro gave him a skeptical look. “Still. You treat her.”

“I suppose.”

Aro paced the length of the room, his dark robe swishing at his ankles. This was odd, Carlisle realized. The brothers only wore the robes when they needed to display command. The last time he’d seen Aro in it had to have been a few years ago or more.

What was going on?

“I confess I didn’t think you to be serious,” Aro began quietly after a moment. “So many years ago, when you said that you wished to work alongside the humans, and even to treat them, to become a physician. I did not know you, then. I’m afraid I underestimated you.”

Carlisle shrugged. “It has happened before.”

“I imagine it would, with you.” Aro began to pace again. “You are entirely different. The things which drive others do not drive you. I confess I find you unpredictable in that regard.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be! It makes you fascinating. And I enjoy fascination. There is so little of it, after so long. One day, you’ll understand this, Young One.” A hand reached out, and a thumb caressed Carlisle’s cheek.

He fought not to pull away.

Aro frowned as he read Carlisle’s thoughts. “You are confused.”

“Why are you here?”

The long hand pulled away from Carlisle’s cheek and disappeared into the recesses of its owner’s cloak, appearing again clutching a wad of black. For a brief moment, Carlisle could barely discern what it held, as it was utterly identical to the clothing of the man who held it. It wasn’t until Aro held up the second item and shook it, allowing the yards of inky fabric to spill to the floor, that Carlisle understood what it was.

His eyes flitted across the room to the hook on the far wall. His own robe hung there, the dark charcoal gray worn by the inner guard. He was no guard, and he felt no obligation to wear it, though he did on occasion for no other reason than simply to keep from drawing attention to himself.

Aro didn’t miss his shift in gaze.

“That one would no longer be yours, Young One.” He held out the dark robe, gesturing for Carlisle to take it. An odd feeling shot down Carlisle’s spine as his fingers closed around the black fabric.

Aro’s face broke into a triumphant smile. “We haven’t added to our number in several millenia.”

Carlisle turned the robe over in his arms.

“The others?” he said finally. Marcus thought him a friend, certainly, but Caius hated him—and would any of them accept him as he was?

“The others do what I say, in the end,” Aro offered. “Democracy ultimately results in chaos; it is why our great Roma fell.”

Carlisle frowned.

“And my habits?”

This time it was Aro’s face which fell. “By which you mean your feedings. Or lack thereof.”

“I feed on that which keeps me human. That upon which humans also feed.”

Aro shuffled away to the other side of the room. For a long moment, Aro said nothing, and when he did, it was the wall he addressed rather than Carlisle himself.

“You haven’t seen what we’ve seen, cucciolo,” he muttered. “The ways humans destroy themselves. They fight needless wars; they starve one another; they murder one another for no reason but sport.”

The hairs on the back of Carlisle’s neck rose. He and Aro had engaged in this exact argument before…but it had been years.

“And so that justifies our killing them, despite that we are men of reason?”

“I did not say that.”

“You as much did.” Carlisle laid the robe carefully over the end of his couch. “I don’t believe as you do, Aro. You know this.”

The other man chuckled. “I do, of course. Your optimism is fascinating to me. Inspiring, even.”

“But you think it won’t last.”

Another chuckle. “You are just barely a century old, Sweet One. You have only just outlived the humans who lived with you. Of course it is easy to feel compassion when those upon whom you feed might have been your contemporaries.”

“This is not a phase I will simply grow out of,” Carlisle answered darkly.

“Oh, I’m not suggesting that you will, of course! I’m only suggesting that perhaps your conviction is born of circumstance more than conscience.” He gestured to the robe, which now lay puddled on the cushions. “Join us. To balance us, Brother. Three can vote without problem. Four must reason with one another to avoid a tie.”

“I thought democracy ultimately results in chaos?”

Aro smiled. “See? And you learn quickly.” He turned on his heel. “I will leave you, Brother. But know this offer is not given lightly.”

“And if I do not take it up?”

The other man’s face pulled into a tight frown. “There would be consequences to such a decision of course.” He looked into Carlisle’s eyes, the ruby burning in the fading daylight.

“Were I you,” he added, “I would be certain to make the correct one.”

Then he vanished, leaving Carlisle standing alone.

At once, he sank into the chair at his desk, dropping his head into his hands. It was a habit left over from his decades as a human; he had no need of rest now, and even emotional fatigue required nothing of his body. He had no need to slouch; but to do so felt oddly restful.

He would be the fourth brother. The only one brought into the fold after they had formed. Would it mean power? Freedom?

Freedom.

It was the word Garrett had used, in speaking about the new World, and the uprising in France. Worth fighting for, he’d said—had it really been only a week ago when they’d sat together on the mountain? When Carlisle couldn’t be certain if he was in Italy, France, or some other place altogether?

The other man’s voice came swirling back. “I suspect you lie, Carlisle. Not to me. That is of little consequence. We have only just met. But I suspect you lie to yourself.”

Was he right?

He remembered the savage beast who attacked him in London, and the others he’d met since. Nomads. Placeless killers. Men and sometimes women who might never open a book, much less keep a roomful of them. Others who would not tutor his Greek, give him a home base from which to begin to do the work which, if he admitted it, he felt supremely called to do.

Brother. They’d never been used the word for Carlisle; he was always The Young One, or The Pup, or The Englishman. He was very rarely even “Carlisle.”

He stood and walked across the room, picking up the cloak and turning it over in his hands. The fabric draped over the back of his wrists, heavy, as though it were sopping wet.

Brother, Aro had called him.

But Garret had called him friend.

The robe fell back to the couch in a puddle of inky black. And by the time the fabric settled, Carlisle had already disappeared.

~||x||~

It was a rare overcast day, and so the contingent of guard in the Great Hall was light when Aro returned from Carlisle’s chambers. They grew restless, his brethren, when the sun shone so relentlessly. And in the Tuscan country, this near the summer solstice, “relentless” was the only way to describe the sun.

He made his way back to his seat slowly, turning over the encounter he’d just had with the Englishman. Would the fiery blond join them? He would provide balance, Aro knew that much. He had been completely truthful in saying that four meant the brothers would be forced to reason, where three meant a vote always won. Just as the vote had been handily won the previous evening, when Aro announced that he would invite Carlisle to join them.

Caius fought, as always. He insisted that they could never be joined by someone whose loyalties lay so surely with humans. What if he attempted to block their feeding? What if he caused an insurrection?

He would not do those things, Aro insisted, and Marcus agreed. Imagining the mild-mannered Englishman planning a coup against them…most of the guard didn’t even like him enough to take his side.

Most of the guard didn’t much like Caius either, but Aro decided not to point this out.

They would insist on total fidelity, Aro told the other two. Down to his feeding habits…which would change over time even if they didn’t force things, he thought.

Marcus agreed.

Keeping Carlisle around would be a mess, Caius insisted. He was better disposed of now, before he became too big a threat.

The memory made Aro cringe.

“Brother? You are all right?”

The words came not in Italian, but in Etruscan, the language the brothers shared and the one language Marcus had refused to teach the Englishman. They used it to speak without being overheard, even in the Great Hall.

Aro drew himself upright in the chair before looking over at his dark-haired brother. Marcus’s face wore clear concern.

“The discussion?” he inquired. “Carlisle? His answer?”

“I told him to consider it carefully and to choose correctly.”

A sigh. “With joining us being the correct choice.”

Aro’s eyes narrowed. “He will be best served here. How long will this physician nonsense last? Until the day he grows bored with humanity and their inane pursuits and gives in to the lifestyle he was born to lead. He knows this. Or at least, he fears it. Otherwise, why has he stayed for four decades?”

“To learn, perhaps?” A smile played on Marcus’s lips. “He is thirsty like a dry sponge for all he can imbibe from us.”

Aro did not answer. He stared out at the handful of guard scattered around the room. Some were engaged in conversation, others playing an elaborate game of stones. Still others stood, bored expressions on their faces.

It was true that Carlisle didn’t fit here. His curiosity; his intellectual pursuits—they made him exceptional even among others of an exceptional race.

“Or keep him,” Marcus said. “Use Charmion to strengthen his bond to you.”

Aro shook his head. “He must choose. The Young One is useless to me if his will is broken.”

“And if he chooses otherwise?”

“Then he will leave us and never return.”

Marcus’s eyes widened.

“There is no other way.”

The other vampire shifted in his seat as though he were somehow uncomfortable. He stared wistfully toward the floor, to the spot where the blond sat whenever the two of them had their teacher-pupil sessions. For a moment, Aro knew that Marcus was imagining as he was, the young vampire moving from his place at their feet to a fourth chair beside them.

But if he rebuffed the offer…

“I cannot allow him the option to stay. I will appear weak.”

“If strength is what you wish to display, why not simply destroy him?”

An odd strangled noise choked from Aro’s throat.

The thought of destroying Carlisle was repulsive. Aro had told the man that he found him fascinating, but it was more than that. He thought back to that first day here, as Carlisle stood before them. Unflinching. Unafraid. At the time, Aro had chalked his brashness up to the naivete of inexperience, but he knew better now. The blond knew what he wanted. He knew who he was, and what he was called to do.

“I would rather see if he succeeds in this…unorthodox path he’s chosen.”

“Or which perhaps you will force him to give up.”

Aro nodded. “Loneliness is a powerful motivator.”

Especially for someone like the Young One.

“A powerful motivator for whom?” piped up a gentle voice, and Aro found a pair of soft hands make their way to his shoulders from behind.

“For the Englishman,” Aro answered his mate. “You were across the compound, I thought?”

“I was near enough to hear this conversation. I thought you were merely tracking Carlisle. Now you’re setting traps?”

Aro bristled. “I am not setting traps.”

“It sounds as though you are.”

“I offered him a place with us.”

“And gave him an ultimatum, from what you said to Marcus.”

He growled, loudly enough that it startled several of the guard, and several heads swiveled their way.

“I will not allow him to make me look like a weakling,” Aro hissed in a whisper.

Sulpicia raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps his caving in would make you look more like a weakling than not? Arruns, the man who is so insecure in his own seat that he must bully someone who poses no threat?”

The echoing smack of the back of his hand against Sulpicia’s cheek reached Aro’s ears before he realized he’d made the decision to strike. His mate’s delicate hand rose to her face, fingers feeling gently as though feeling to make certain all the pieces were there. Her guards were upon her in an instant, cooing and taking her arms, even as they nodded in deference to Aro.

“I will not tolerate this kind of disagreement,” he snarled.

Sulpicia backed away, her eyes narrowed. Shrugging off the attention of Corin and her other guards, Sulpicia drew herself to her full height—impressively towering, and one of the reasons he’d mated her in the first place. For a long moment, she stood there silently, staring at Aro.

“You fear him, Arnza,” she said. “And you fear someone from whom there is nothing to fear.”

Then she turned and was gone, nearly crashing into Alrigo and Raphael who came barreling in the other direction. They both looked hurried, but stopped short at the expression on Aro’s face.

“Master?”

Aro raised his eyebrows, extending his hand to Alrigo. At once the images flooded Aro’s mind—hunting, a human dead in the forest, one in the square, Alrigo’s childhood, a fight with Raphael, an argument with another of the guard, commands from Aro, obeyed, obeyed, obeyed. All the pieces of Alrigo’s mind swirled in Aro’s until he found the new piece, this latest bit of memory that was the one his guard had intended to convey.

The Englishman’s chambers, reeking of odd herbs, but with his own scent still recent enough on the air. The door, ajar, the chair, hastily pushed back. The bag, gone.

And the robe, the black robe which invited him into the Brotherhood, puddled unceremoniously on the stone floor.

Aro jerked his hand from Alrigo’s as though the other’s was on fire.

“He’s gone?”

“Ten minutes, at best. Through the tunnels.”

Ten minutes in a place unseen by humans could put the Englishman anywhere. In the forests north of the compound, in the city to the south—just as the guard enjoyed the overcast day, so would Carlisle take shelter in it.

Where would he run?

“Master?”

“Find him,” Aro growled, but no one moved. Even Alrigo looked nervously from Marcus to Aro, as though he were waiting for further instruction.

“Find him!” Aro bellowed. “All of you! The Englishman. Find him and bring him back to me! Go!”

The Great Hall emptied at once, a drain with its plug just pulled, its inhabitants swirling out the doors murmuring to one another. Within seconds, the hall was empty, save Marcus, who sat more upright in his chair.

For a long moment, he said nothing. It wasn’t until Caius appeared in the doorway, a perplexed look on his face, that Marcus addressed Aro, who stood, his hands balled into fists at his side.

Marcus arched a single eyebrow.

“Loneliness is a powerful motivator,” was all he said.

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Chapter Notes

The Fourth Brother was the original title of Stregoni Benefici, well, at least after I decided my fic Absolution, which was to barrel straight through from 1644 to 2005 would not work as a single coherent narrative. It all began when someone in the Ithaca is Gorges Twilighted thread (man, remember those days? It’s a ghost town over there now) mentioned the extraordinary similarities between what we might assume Carlisle’s father was like, and what Aro is like.

Both of them want Carlisle to be something he’s not, even though all the while, they are fascinated by and even want to on some level protect who he is. And for a time Carlisle feels comforted in both their shelter, but as he grows more into himself, what once felt like protection begins to feel like a vise.

I have a friend, M, with whom I talk over a lot of my writing, both profic and fanfic, and way back in early 2010, as I finished Ithaca and was starting on Da Capo, I talked to her about this theory, and how I wanted to intertwine the story of Carlisle leaving his father with the story of Carlisle leaving Aro.

And she said, “Yes, but why would either of those stories matter? In what context do they make sense for him to bother to even recount them?”

And that was when I realized Stregoni needed a third narrative, and that to tie those two together, I was going to need to show how they resulted in the man who, on a cold October night, snatched a dying seventeen-year-old out of a hospital in Chicago and turned him into the vampire we all grew to love through Bella Swan’s eyes.

That’s always what this is about for me. There are, I think, vast similarities in all three storylines, and I’m dong my level best to make them all surface as makes sense.

I said in the author’s note to my last chapter that I was disappointed in my own posting speed and would do my best to change that. So I took advantage of Camp NaNoWriMo, and this work is now drafted to within three chapters of its end. Starting with this post, Stregoni will post weekly, every Thursday, until its completion. It is written out to within three chapters of the end, and I expect to finish one of the three chapters tonight. If I feel I’ve gotten ahead on the editorial work, I’ll try to post a chapter on a Monday as well. If you’d like to re-read, or if you’re reading for the first time, I’ve put together a quick-and-dirty PDF version of chapters 1-14 for you to download and read at your leisure.

Thank you for reading, as always.