"Absolutely," Trista said. "But let me pour it for you, Pennsylvania. You probably don't even know how to pump a keg." Emily watched as Trista pumped the keg handle a few times and let the beer filter slowly into her cup, producing almost no foam. "Thanks," Emily answered, taking a sip. Trista poured herself a beer and led Emily away from the line to one of the couches that lined the walls of the silo. "So, did your family just move here?" "I'm staying with my cousins for a little while." Emily pointed to Abby, who was dancing with a tall blond boy, and to Matt and John, who were smoking cigarettes with a petite redhead wearing a skintight pink sweater and skinny jeans. "You on a little vacation?" Trista asked, fluttering her eyelashes. Emily couldn't be sure, but it seemed like Trista was moving closer and closer to her on the couch. She was doing everything in her power not to touch Trista's long legs, which were dangling inches from her own. "Not exactly," she blurted out. "My parents kicked me out of the house because I couldn't live by their rules." Trista fiddled with the strap of her tan boots. "My mom's like that. She thinks I'm at a choir concert right now. Otherwise she never would've let me out." "I used to have to lie to my parents about going to parties too," Emily said, suddenly afraid she was going to start crying again. She tried to imagine what was happening at her house right now. Her family had probably gathered around the TV after dinner. Just her mom, her dad, and Carolyn, happily chatting among themselves, glad that Emily, the heathen, was gone. It hurt so much it made her feel nauseated. Trista glanced at Emily sympathetically, as if she sensed something was wrong. "So hey. Here's another one. If you were a party, what kind of party would you be?" "A surprise party," Emily blurted out. That seemed like the story of her life lately--one big surprise after another.

"Good one." Trista smiled. "I'd be a toga party." They smiled at each other for a long moment. There was something about Trista's heart-shaped face and wide, blue eyes that made Emily feel really...safe. Trista leaned forward, and so did Emily. It was almost like they were going to kiss, but then Trista bent down very slowly and fixed the strap on her shoe. "So why'd they send you here, anyway?" Trista asked when she sat back up. Emily took a huge swallow of beer. "Because they caught me kissing a girl," she blurted out. When Trista leaned back, her eyes wide, Emily thought she'd made a horrible mistake. Perhaps Trista was just being Midwestern friendly, and Emily had misinterpreted. But then, Trista broke into a coy smile. She moved her lips close to Emily's ear. "You totally wouldn't be a Tootsie Roll. If it were up to me, you'd be a red-hot candy heart." Emily's heart did three somersaults. Trista stood up and offered Emily her hand. Emily took it, and without a word, Trista led her to the dance floor and started dancing sexily to the music. The song changed to a fast one, and Trista squealed and started to jump around as if she were on a trampoline. Her energy was intoxicating. Emily felt like she could be goofy with Trista--not constantly poised and cool, as she always felt she had to behave around Maya. Maya. Emily stopped, breathing in the rank, humid silo air. Last night, she and Maya had said they loved each other. Were they still together, now that Emily was possibly permanently stuck here, amid all this corn and cow manure? Did this qualify as cheating? And what did it mean that Emily hadn't thought of her once tonight, until now? Trista's cell phone beeped. She stepped out of the circle of dancers and pulled it out of her pocket. "My stupid mom's texting me for like the gazillionth time tonight," she yelled over the music, shaking her head. A shock vibrated through Emily--any minute now, she'd probably be getting a text of her own. A always seemed to know when she was having naughty thoughts. Only, her cell phone...was in the swear jar. Emily let out a thrilled bleat of laughter. Her phone was in the swear jar. She was at a party in Iowa,

Abby squeezed Emily's arm. "The ratio of guys to girls here is four to one," she whispered. "So you'll totally hook up tonight. I always do." So Abby didn't know about Emily. "Oh. Great." Emily tried to smile. Abby winked and jumped out of the truck. Emily followed the others toward the silo. The air smelled like Clinique Happy perfume; hoppy, soapy beer; and dried grass. When she walked inside, she expected to see bales of hay, a farm animal or two, and perhaps a bare, unstable ladder that led to a freaky girl's bedroom, just like in The Ring. Instead, the silo had been cleared out and Christmas lights hung from the ceiling. Plush, plum-colored couches lined the walls, and Emily saw a turntable in the corner and a bunch of enormous kegs near the back. Abby, who'd already grabbed a beer, pulled a couple of guys toward Emily. Even in Rosewood, they would've been popular--they all had floppy hair, angular faces, and brilliant white teeth. "Brett, Todd, Xavi...this is my cousin Emily. She's from Pennsylvania." "Hi," Emily said, shaking the boys' hands. "Pennsylvania." The boys nodded appreciatively, as if Abby had said Emily was from Naughty Dirty Sex Land. As Abby wandered off with one of the boys, Emily made her way to the keg. She stood in line behind a blond couple who were grinding against each other. The DJ melted into Timbaland, whom everyone at Rosewood was into right now, too. Really, people in Iowa didn't seem that different from people at her school. The girls all wore denim skirts and wedge heels, and the guys wore oversize hoodies and baggy jeans, and seemed to be experimenting with facial hair. Emily wondered where all of them went to school, or if their parents homeschooled them as well. "Are you the new girl?" A tall, white-blond girl in a striped tunic and dark jeans stood behind her. She had the broad shoulders and powerful stance of a professional volleyball player, and four small earrings snaked up her left ear. But

there was something very sweet and open about her round face, light blue eyes, and small, pretty lips. And unlike practically every other girl in the silo, she didn't have a guy's hands draped over her boobs. "Uh, yeah," Emily replied. "I just got here today." "And you're from Pennsylvania, right?" The girl pivoted back on her hips and appraised Emily carefully. "I was there once. We went to Harvard Square." "I think you mean Boston, in Massachusetts," Emily corrected her. "That's where Harvard is. Pennsylvania has Philadelphia. The Liberty Bell, Ben Franklin stuff, all that." "Oh." The girl's face fell. "I haven't been to Pennsylvania, then." She lowered her chin at Emily. "So. If you were candy, what kind would you be?" "Sorry?" Emily blinked. "Come on." The girl poked her. "Me, I'd be an M&M." "Why?" Emily asked. The girl lowered her eyes seductively. "Because I melt in your mouth, obviously." She poked Emily. "So how about you?" Emily shrugged. This was the strangest getting-to-know-you question anyone had ever asked her, but she kind of liked it. "I've never thought about it. A Tootsie Roll?" The girl violently shook her head. "You wouldn't be a Tootsie Roll. That looks like a big long poop. You'd be something way sexier than that." Emily breathed in very, very slowly. Was this girl flirting with her? "Um, I think I need to know your name before we talk about...sexy candy." The girl stuck out her hand. "I'm Trista." "Emily." As they shook, Trista spiraled her thumb around the inside of Emily's palm. She never took her eyes off Emily's face. Maybe this was just some sort of cultural Iowan way of saying hello. "Do you want a beer?" Emily sputtered, turning back for the keg.

Byron excused himself from the table and bounded off to Meredith's minuscule bathroom. After he turned on the bathroom's overhead fan, Meredith laid down her fork and looked squarely at Aria. "I know what you're thinking," she said evenly, rubbing her thumb along the pink spiderweb tattoo on her wrist. "You hate that your father's with me. But you'd better get used to it, Aria. Byron and I are going to be married as soon as your parents' divorce goes through." Aria accidentally swallowed an unchewed bite of noodles. She coughed up the broth, sputtering it all over the table. Meredith jumped back, her eyes wide. "Something you ate not agreeing with you?" she simpered. Aria looked away sharply, her throat burning. Something hadn't agreed with her, all right, but it wasn't the Wicked Witch's soup. 6 EMILY'S JUST A SWEET, INNOCENT MIDWESTERN GAL "Come on!" Abby urged, pulling Emily across the farmyard. The sun was sinking over the flat Iowa horizon, and all sorts of long-legged Midwestern bugs were coming out to play. Apparently, Emily, Abby, and Emily's two eldest boy cousins, Matt and John, were also going out to play. The four of them stopped at the edge of the road. John and Matt had both changed out of their plain white T-shirts and work pants into baggy jeans and T-shirts with beer slogans. Abby pulled at the bodice of her tube top and checked her lipstick in her little compact mirror. Emily, in the same jeans and swimming T-shirt she'd worn when she arrived, felt plain and underdressed--which was pretty much how she always felt back in Rosewood. Emily gazed over her shoulder at the farmhouse. All of its lights were off, but the dogs were still running crazily around the property, and the bad goat was still chained to the cattle guard, the bell around her neck clanging back and forth. It was a wonder Helene and Allen didn't put bells on their children. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" she wondered aloud.

"It's fine," Abby answered, her hoop earrings swinging. "Mom and Dad go to bed at eight P.M. like clockwork. That's what happens when you wake up at four." "We've been doing this for months and haven't gotten caught once," Matt assured her. Suddenly, a silver pickup truck appeared on the horizon, dust kicking up in its wake. The truck rolled slowly up to the four of them and stopped. A hip-hop song Emily couldn't place wafted out, along with the strong smell of menthol cigarettes. A dark-haired, Noel Kahn look-alike waved to the cousins, then smiled at Emily. "Soooo...this is your cousin, huh?" "That's right," Abby said. "She's from Pennsylvania. Emily, this is Dyson." "Get in." Dyson patted the seat. Abby and Emily climbed in the front, and John and Matt climbed into the pickup bed. As they rolled off, Emily glanced once more at the farmhouse receding in the distance, an uneasy feeling gnawing at her. "So, what brings you to glamorous Addams?" Dyson clunkily shifted gears. Emily glanced at Abby. "My parents sent me." "They sent you away?" "Totally," Abby interrupted. "I heard you're a real badass, Emily." She looked at Dyson. "Emily lives on the edge." Emily stifled a laugh. The only rebellious thing she'd ever done in front of Abby was sneak an extra Oreo for dessert. She wondered if her cousins knew the truth of why her parents had banished her here. Probably not--lesbian was most likely a swear-jar word. Within minutes, they drove up an uneven path to a large, burnt-orange silo, and parked on the grass next to a car with a bumper sticker that read, I BRAKE FOR HOOTERS. Two pale boys rolled out of a red pickup and bumped fists with a couple beefy, towheaded boys climbing out of a black Dodge Ram. Emily smirked. She'd always thought using the word corn-fed to describe someone from Iowa was a clich? but right now, it was the only description that came to mind.

on such short notice." Aria shut her eyes. She missed Ezra's shabby little apartment, with its bathtub and thousands of books and map of the New York City subway system shower curtain. There were no roaches there, either--real or fake. "Honey?" Meredith's voice rang out from the kitchen. "Dinner's ready." Byron gave Aria a tight smile and turned for the kitchen. Aria figured she should follow. In the kitchen, Meredith was setting bowls at each of their plates. Thankfully, dinner wasn't gruel, but innocent-looking chicken soup. "I thought this would be best for my stomach," she admitted. "Meredith's been having some stomach issues," Byron explained. Aria turned to the window and smiled. Maybe she'd get lucky and Meredith would have somehow contracted the bubonic plague. "It's low-salt." Meredith punched Byron in the arm. "So it's good for you, too." Aria looked at her father curiously. Byron used to salt every single bite while it was on the fork. "Since when do you eat low-salt stuff?" "I have high blood pressure," Byron said, pointing to his heart. Aria wrinkled her nose. "No, you don't." "Yes, I do." Byron tucked his napkin into his collar. "I have for a while now." "But...but you've never eaten low-salt stuff before." "I'm a slave driver," Meredith insisted, scraping back a seat and sitting down. Meredith had positioned Aria at the head of the Wicked Witch cutout. Aria slid her bowl over to cover the witch's pea-green visage. "I keep him on a regimen," Meredith went on. "I make him take vitamins, too." Aria slumped, dread welling in her stomach. Meredith was already acting like Byron's wife, and he'd only lived with her for a month. Meredith pointed to Aria's hand. "Whatcha got there?" Aria stared down at her lap, realizing she was still holding the Shakespeare bobblehead Ezra had given her. "Oh. It's just...something from a friend."

"A friend who likes literature, I guess." Meredith reached out and made Shakespeare's head bob up and down. There was a tiny glint in her eye. Aria froze. Could Meredith know about Ezra? She glanced at Byron. Her father slurped his soup, oblivious. He wasn't reading at the table, something he constantly did at home. Had Byron seriously been unhappy at home? Did he honestly enjoy bug-painting, taxidermy-loving Meredith more than he loved Aria's sweet, kind, loving mother, Ella? And what made Byron think Aria could just sit idly by and accept this? "Oh, Meredith has a surprise for you," Byron piped up. "Every semester, she gets to take a class at Hollis for free. She says you can use this semester's credit to take a class instead." "That's right." Meredith passed the Hollis College continuing education course book to Aria. "Maybe you'd like to take one of the art classes I'm teaching?" Aria bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. She'd rather have shards of glass permanently lodged in her throat than spend a single additional moment with Meredith. "Come on, pick a class," Byron urged. "You know you want to." So they were forcing her to do this? Aria whipped open the book. Maybe she could take something in German filmmaking, or microbiology, or Special Topics in Neglected Children and Maladjusted Family Behavior. Then something caught her eye. Mindless Art: Create uniquely crafted masterpieces in tune with your soul's needs, wants, and desires. Through sculpture and touch, students learn to depend less on their eyes and more on their inner selves. Aria circled the class with the gray ROCKS ROCK! Hollis geology department pencil she'd found wedged in the course book. The class definitely sounded kooky. It might even end up being like one of those Icelandic yoga classes where instead of stretching, Aria and the rest of the students danced with their eyes closed, making hawk noises. But she needed a little mindlessness right now. Plus, it was one of the few art classes that Meredith wasn't teaching. Which pretty much made it perfect.

ever met," he said. "So just...screw 'em, you know? You'll be fine." Ezra leaned down, sealing up boxes with clear packing tape. Aria backed out of the apartment in a daze, wondering why he'd suddenly turned all guidance counselor on her. It was like he was saying that he was the adult, with responsibilities and consequences, and she was just a kid, her whole life in front of her. Which was exactly what she didn't want to hear right then. "Aria! Welcome!" Meredith cried. She stood at the edge of the kitchen, wearing a black-and-white striped apron--which Aria was trying to imagine as a prison uniform--and a cow-shaped oven mitt covered her right hand. She was grinning like a shark about to swallow a minnow. Aria dragged in the last of the bags Sean had dumped at her feet last night and looked around. She knew Meredith had quirky taste--she was an artist, and taught classes at Hollis College, the same place where Byron was tenured--but Meredith's living room looked like a psychopath had decorated it. There was a dentist's chair in the corner, complete with a tray for all the instruments of torture. Meredith had covered a whole wall with pictures of eyeballs. She branded messages into wood as a form of artistic expression, and there was a big wood chunk across the mantel that said, BEAUTY IS ONLY SKIN DEEP, BUT UGLY GOES CLEAN TO THE BONE. There was a large cutout of the Wicked Witch of the West pasted over the kitchen table. Aria was half tempted to point to it and say she hadn't known Meredith's mother was from Oz. Then she saw a raccoon in the corner and screamed. "Don't worry, don't worry," Meredith said quickly. "He's stuffed. I bought him at a taxidermy store in Philly." Aria wrinkled her nose. This place rivaled the M黷ter Museum of medical oddities in Philadelphia, which Aria's brother loved almost as much as the sex museums he'd visited in Europe. "Aria!" Byron appeared from behind a corner, wiping his hands on his jeans. Aria noted that he was wearing dark denim jeans with a belt and a soft gray sweater--maybe his usual uniform of a sweat-stained Sixers T-shirt and frayed plaid boxers wasn't good enough for Meredith. "Welcome!"

Aria grunted, hefting up her duffel again. When she sniffed the air, it smelled like a combination of burnt wood and Cream of Wheat. She eyed the pot on the stove suspiciously. Perhaps Meredith was cooking gruel, like an evil headmistress in a Dickens novel. "So let me show you your room." Byron grabbed Aria's hand. He led her down the hall to a large, square room that contained a few big chunks of wood, some branding irons, an enormous band saw, and welding tools. Aria assumed this was Meredith's studio--or the room where she finished off her victims. "This way," Byron said. He led her to a space in the corner of the studio that was separated from the rest of the room by a floral curtain. When he pushed the curtain back, he crowed, "Taa-daaa!" A twin bed and a dresser missing three of its drawers occupied a space only slightly larger than a shower stall. Byron had carried in her other suitcases earlier, but because there was no room on the floor, he'd piled them on the bed. There was one flat, yellowed pillow propped up against the headboard, and someone had balanced a tiny portable TV in the windowsill. There was a sticker on the top of it that said in old, faded, seventies lettering, SAVE A HORSE, RIDE A WELDER. Aria turned to Byron, feeling nauseated. "I have to sleep in Meredith's studio?" "She doesn't work at night," Byron said quickly. "And look! You have your own TV and your own fireplace!" He pointed to a huge brick monstrosity that took up most of the far wall. Most Old Hollis houses had fireplaces in every room because their central heating systems sucked. "You can make it cozy in here at night!" "Dad, I have no idea how to light a fireplace." Then Aria noticed a trail of cockroaches going from one corner of the ceiling to another. "Jesus!" she screamed, pointing at them and cowering behind Byron. "They're not real," Byron reassured her. "Meredith painted them. She's really personalized this place with an artistic touch." Aria felt like she was going to hyperventilate. "They look real to me!" Byron looked honestly surprised. "I thought you'd like this place. It was the best we could put together

Venters gasped in amazement.

As the afternoon wore away Venters's concern diminished, yet he kept close watch on the blacks and the trail and the sage. There was no telling of what Jerry Card might be capable. Venters sullenly acquiesced to the idea that the rider had been too quick and too shrewd for him. Strangely and doggedly, however, Venters clung to his foreboding of Card's downfall.

The wind died away; the red sun topped the far distant western rise of slope; and the long, creeping purple shadows lengthened. The rims of the canyons gleamed crimson and the deep clefts appeared to belch forth blue smoke. Silence enfolded the scene.

It was broken by a horrid, long-drawn scream of a horse and the thudding of heavy hoofs. Venters sprang erect and wheeled south. Along the canyon rim, near the edge, came Wrangle, once more in thundering flight.

Venters gasped in amazement. Had the wild sorrel gone mad? His head was high and twisted, in a most singular position for a running horse. Suddenly Venters descried a frog-like shape clinging to Wrangle's neck. Jerry Card! Somehow he had straddled Wrangle and now stuck like a huge burr. But it was his strange position and the sorrel's wild scream that shook Venters's nerves. Wrangle was pounding toward the turn where the trail went down. He plunged onward like a blind horse. More than one of his leaps took him to the very edge of the precipice.

Jerry Card was bent forward with his teeth fast in the front of Wrangle's nose! Venters saw it, and there flashed over him a memory of this trick of a few desperate riders. He even thought of one rider who had worn off his teeth in this terrible hold to break or control desperate horses. Wrangle had indeed gone mad. The marvel was what guided him. Was it the half-brute, the more than half-horse instinct of Jerry Card? Whatever the mystery, it was true. And in a few more rods Jerry would have the sorrel turning into the trail leading down into the canyon.

"No--Jerry!" whispered Venters, stepping forward and throwing up the rifle. He tried to catch the little humped, frog-like shape over the sights. It was moving too fast; it was too small. Yet Venters shot once ...twice...the third time...four times...five! all wasted shots and precious seconds!

With a deep-muttered curse Venters caught Wrangle through the sights and pulled the trigger. Plainly he heard the bullet thud. Wrangle uttered a horrible strangling sound. In swift death action he whirled, and with one last splendid leap he cleared the canyon rim. And he whirled downward with the little frog-like shape clinging to his neck!

There was a pause which seemed never ending, a shock, and an instant s silence.

Then up rolled a heavy crash, a long roar of sliding rocks dying away in distant echo, then silence unbroken.

Wrangle's race was run.

Then Venters sat down to rest and think.

Then Venters sat down to rest and think. Whatever the risk, he was compelled to stay where he was, or comparatively near, for the night. The horses must rest and drink. He must find water. He was now seventy miles from Cottonwoods, and, he believed, close to the canyon where the cattle trail must surely turn off and go down into the Pass. After a while he rose to survey the valley.

He was very near to the ragged edge of a deep canyon into which the trail turned. The ground lay in uneven ridges divided by washes, and these sloped into the canyon. Following the canyon line, he saw where its rim was broken by other intersecting canyons, and farther down red walls and yellow cliffs leading toward a deep blue cleft that he made sure was Deception Pass. Walking out a few rods to a promontory, he found where the trail went down. The descent was gradual, along a stone-walled trail, and Venters felt sure that this was the place where Oldring drove cattle into the Pass. There was, however, no indication at all that he ever had driven cattle out at this point. Oldring had many holes to his burrow.

In searching round in the little hollows Venters, much to his relief, found water. He composed himself to rest and eat some bread and meat, while he waited for a sufficient time to elapse so that he could safely give the horses a drink. He judged the hour to be somewhere around noon. Wrangle lay down to rest and Night followed suit. So long as they were down Venters intended to make no move. The longer they rested the better, and the safer it would be to give them water. By and by he forced himself to go over to where Black Star lay, expecting to find him dead. Instead he found the racer partially if not wholly recovered. There was recognition, even fire, in his big black eyes. Venters was overjoyed. He sat by the black for a long time. Black Star presently labored to his feet with a heave and a groan, shook himself, and snorted for water. Venters repaired to the little pool he had found, filled his sombrero, and gave the racer a drink. Black Star gulped it at one draught, as if it were but a drop, and pushed his nose into the hat and snorted for more. Venters now led Night down to drink, and after a further time Black Star also. Then the blacks began to graze.

The sorrel had wandered off down the sage between the trail and the canyon. Once or twice he disappeared in little swales. Finally Venters concluded Wrangle had grazed far enough, and, taking his lasso, he went to fetch him back. In crossing from one ridge to another he saw where the horse had made muddy a pool of water. It occurred to Venters then that Wrangle had drunk his fill, and did not seem the worse for it, and might be anything but easy to catch. And, true enough, he could not come within roping reach of the sorrel. He tried for an hour, and gave up in disgust. Wrangle did not seem so wild as simply perverse. In a quandary Venters returned to the other horses, hoping much, yet doubting more, that when Wrangle had grazed to suit himself he might be caught.

Venters looked back.

Only a hundred yards now stretched between Black Star and Wrangle. The giant sorrel thundered on--and on--and on. In every yard he gained a foot. He was whistling through his nostrils, wringing wet, flying lather, and as hot as fire. Savage as ever, strong as ever, fast as ever, but each tremendous stride jarred Venters out of the saddle! Wrangle's power and spirit and momentum had begun to run him off his legs. Wrangle's great race was nearly won--and run. Venters seemed to see the expanse before him as a vast, sheeted, purple plain sliding under him. Black Star moved in it as a blur. The rider, Jerry Card, appeared a mere dot bobbing dimly. Wrangle thundered on--on--on! Venters felt the increase in quivering, straining shock after every leap. Flecks of foam flew into Venters's eyes, burning him, making him see all the sage as red. But in that red haze he saw, or seemed to see, Black Star suddenly riderless and with broken gait. Wrangle thundered on to change his pace with a violent break. Then Venters pulled him hard. From run to gallop, gallop to canter, canter to trot, trot to walk, and walk to stop, the great sorrel ended his race.

Venters looked back. Black Star stood riderless in the trail. Jerry Card had taken to the sage. Far up the white trail Night came trotting faithfully down. Venters leaped off, still half blind, reeling dizzily. In a moment he had recovered sufficiently to have a care for Wrangle. Rapidly he took off the saddle and bridle. The sorrel was reeking, heaving, whistling, shaking. But he had still the strength to stand, and for him Venters had no fears.

As Venters ran back to Black Star he saw the horse stagger on shaking legs into the sage and go down in a heap. Upon reaching him Venters removed the saddle and bridle. Black Star had been killed on his legs, Venters thought. He had no hope for the stricken horse. Black Star lay flat, covered with bloody froth, mouth wide, tongue hanging, eyes glaring, and all his beautiful body in convulsions.

Unable to stay there to see Jane's favorite racer die, Venters hurried up the trail to meet the other black. On the way he kept a sharp lookout for Jerry Card. Venters imagined the rider would keep well out of range of the rifle, but, as he would be lost on the sage without a horse, not improbably he would linger in the vicinity on the chance of getting back one of the blacks. Night soon came trotting up, hot and wet and run out. Venters led him down near the others, and unsaddling him, let him loose to rest. Night wearily lay down in the dust and rolled, proving himself not yet spent.

Venters peered far ahead,

Thenceforth, while Wrangle sped on, Venters glued his eyes to the little rider. Jerry Card rode as only he could ride. Of all the daring horsemen of the uplands, Jerry was the one rider fitted to bring out the greatness of the blacks in that long race. He had them on a dead run, but not yet at the last strained and killing pace. From time to time he glanced backward, as a wise general in retreat calculating his chances and the power and speed of pursuers, and the moment for the last desperate burst. No doubt, Card, with his life at stake, gloried in that race, perhaps more wildly than Venters. For he had been born to the sage and the saddle and the wild. He was more than half horse. Not until the last call--the sudden up-flashing instinct of self-preservation--would he lose his skill and judgment and nerve and the spirit of that race. Venters seemed to read Jerry's mind. That little crime-stained rider was actually thinking of his horses, husbanding their speed, handling them with knowledge of years, glorying in their beautiful, swift, racing stride, and wanting them to win the race when his own life hung suspended in quivering balance. Again Jerry whirled in his saddle and the sun flashed red on his face. Turning, he drew Black Star closer and closer toward Night, till they ran side by side, as one horse. Then Card raised himself in the saddle, slipped out of the stirrups, and, somehow twisting himself, leaped upon Black Star. He did not even lose the swing of the horse. Like a leech he was there in the other saddle, and as the horses separated, his right foot, that had been apparently doubled under him, shot down to catch the stirrup. The grace and dexterity and daring of that rider's act won something more than admiration from Venters. For the distance of a mile Jerry rode Black Star and then changed back to Night. But all Jerry's skill and the running of the blacks could avail little more against the sorrel.

Venters peered far ahead, studying the lay of the land. Straightaway for five miles the trail stretched, and then it disappeared in hummocky ground. To the right, some few rods, Venters saw a break in the sage, and this was the rim of Deception Pass. Across the dark cleft gleamed the red of the opposite wall. Venters imagined that the trail went down into the Pass somewhere north of those ridges. And he realized that he must and would overtake Jerry Card in this straight course of five miles.

Cruelly he struck his spurs into Wrangle's flanks. A light touch of spur was sufficient to make Wrangle plunge. And now, with a ringing, wild snort, he seemed to double up in muscular convulsions and to shoot forward with an impetus that almost unseated Venters. The sage blurred by, the trail flashed by, and the wind robbed him of breath and hearing. Jerry Card turned once more. And the way he shifted to Black Star showed he had to make his last desperate running. Venters aimed to the side of the trail and sent a bullet puffing the dust beyond Jerry. Venters hoped to frighten the rider and get him to take to the sage. But Jerry returned the shot, and his ball struck dangerously close in the dust at Wrangle's flying feet. Venters held his fire then, while the rider emptied his revolver. For a mile, with Black Star leaving Night behind and doing his utmost, Wrangle did not gain; for another mile he gained little, if at all. In the third he caught up with the now galloping Night and began to gain rapidly on the other black.

When Wrangle's long mane,

In his mind perhaps, as certainly as in Venters's, this moment was the beginning of the real race.

Venters leaned forward to put his hand on Wrangle's neck, then backward to put it on his flank. Under the shaggy, dusty hair trembled and vibrated and rippled a wonderful muscular activity. But Wrangle's flesh was still cold. What a cold-blooded brute thought Venters, and felt in him a love for the horse he had never given to any other. It would not have been humanly possible for any rider, even though clutched by hate or revenge or a passion to save a loved one or fear of his own life, to be astride the sorrel to swing with his swing, to see his magnificent stride and hear the rapid thunder of his hoofs, to ride him in that race and not glory in the ride.

So, with his passion to kill still keen and unabated, Venters lived out that ride, and drank a rider's sage-sweet cup of wildness to the dregs.

When Wrangle's long mane, lashing in the wind, stung Venters in the cheek, the sting added a beat to his flying pulse. He bent a downward glance to try to see Wrangle's actual stride, and saw only twinkling, darting streaks and the white rush of the trail. He watched the sorrel's savage head, pointed level, his mouth still closed and dry, but his nostrils distended as if he were snorting unseen fire. Wrangle was the horse for a race with death. Upon each side Venters saw the sage merged into a sailing, colorless wall. In front sloped the lay of ground with its purple breadth split by the white trail. The wind, blowing with heavy, steady blast into his face, sickened him with enduring, sweet odor, and filled his ears with a hollow, rushing roar.

Then for the hundredth time he measured the width of space separating him from Jerry Card. Wrangle had ceased to gain. The blacks were proving their fleetness. Venters watched Jerry Card, admiring the little rider's horsemanship. He had the incomparable seat of the upland rider, born in the saddle. It struck Venters that Card had changed his position, or the position of the horses. Presently Venters remembered positively that Jerry had been leading Night on the right-hand side of the trail. The racer was now on the side to the left. No--it was Black Star. But, Venters argued in amaze, Jerry had been mounted on Black Star. Another clearer, keener gaze assured Venters that Black Star was really riderless. Night now carried Jerry Card.

"He's changed from one to the other!" ejaculated Venters, realizing the astounding feat with unstinted admiration. "Changed at full speed! Jerry Card, that's what you've done unless I'm drunk on the smell of sage. But I've got to see the trick before I believe it."

You want me to see a shrink?

He paused, searching for the words again. "When your mother left," he began, frowning, "and took you
with her." He inhaled deeply. "Well, that was a really bad time for me."

"I know, Dad," I mumbled.

"But I handled it," he pointed out. "Honey, you're not handling it. I waited, I hoped it would get better."
He stared at me and I looked down quickly. "I think we both know it's not getting better."

"I'mfine."

He ignored me. "Maybe, well, maybe if you talked to someone about it. A professional."

"You want me to see a shrink?" My voice was a shade sharper as I realized what he was getting at.

"Maybe it would help."

"And maybe it wouldn't help one little bit."

I didn't know much about psychoanalysis, but I was pretty sure that it didn't work unless the subject was
relatively honest. Sure, I could tell the truth—if I wanted to spend the rest of my life in a padded cell.

He examined my obstinate expression, and switched to another line of attack.

"It's beyond me, Bella. Maybe your mother—"

"Look," I said in a flat voice. "I'll go out tonight, if you want. I'll call Jess or Angela."

"That's not what I want," he argued, frustrated. "I don't think I can live through seeing you try harder.
I've never seen anyone trying so hard. It hurts to watch."

I pretended to be dense, looking down at the table. "I don't understand, Dad. First you're mad because
I'm not doing anything, and then you say you don't want me to go out."

"I want you to be happy—no, not even that much. I just want you not to be miserable. I think you'll have

a better chance if you get out of Forks."

My eyes flashed up with the first small spark of feeling I'd had in too long to contemplate.

"I'm not leaving," I said.

You want me to get into trouble?

"I'm sending you to Renee, to Jacksonville," he clarified.

Charlie watched with exasperation as I slowly grasped the meaning of his words.

"What did I do?" I felt my face crumple. It was so unfair. My behavior had been above reproach for the
past four months. After that first week, which neither of us ever mentioned, I hadn't missed a day of
school or work. My grades were perfect. I never broke curfew—I never went anywhere from which to
break curfew in the first place. I only very rarely served leftovers.

Charlie was scowling.

"You didn't do anything. That's the problem. You never do anything."

"You want me to get into trouble?" I wondered, my eyebrows pulling together in mystification. I made an
effort to pay attention. It wasn't easy. I was so used to tuning everything out, my ears felt stopped up.

"Trouble would be better than this… this moping around all the time!"

That stung a bit. I'd been careful to avoid all forms of moroseness, moping included.

"I am not moping around."

"Wrong word," he grudgingly conceded. "Moping would be better—that would be doing something.
You're just… lifeless, Bella. I think that's the word I want."

This accusation struck home. I sighed and tried to put some animation into my response.

"I'm sorry, Dad." My apology sounded a little flat, even to me. I'd thought I'd been fooling him. Keeping
Charlie from suffering was the whole point of all this effort. How depressing to think that the effort had
been wasted.

"I don't want you to apologize."

I sighed. "Then tell me what you do want me to do."

"Bella," he hesitated, scrutinizing my reaction to his next words. "Honey, you're not the first person to go
through this kind of thing, you know."

"I know that." My accompanying grimace was limp and unimpressive.

"Listen, honey. I think that—that maybe you need some help."

"Help?"

I did not resurface.

It was empty.

The album Renee had given me sat on the floor beside the bed, just where I'd put it last. I lifted the cover
with a shaking hand.

I didn't have to flip any farther than the first page. The little metal corners no longer held a picture in
place. The page was blank except for my own handwriting scrawled across the bottom: Edward Cullen,
Charlie's kitchen, Sept. 13th.

I stopped there. I was sure that he would have been very thorough.

It will be as if I'd never existed, he'd promised me.

I felt the smooth wooden floor beneath my knees, and then the palms of my hands, and then it was
pressed against the skin of my cheek. I hoped that I was fainting, but, to my disappointment, I didn't lose
consciousness. The waves of pain that had only lapped at me before now reared high up and washed
over my head, pulling me under.

I did not resurface.

OCTOBER


4. WAKING UP




TIME PASSES. EVEN WHEN IT SEEMS IMPOSSIBLE. EVEN when each tick of the second hand
aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise. It passes unevenly, in strange lurches and dragging lulls, but
pass it does. Even for me.




CHARLIE'S FIST CAME DOWN ON THE TABLE. "THAT'S IT, Bella! I'm sending you home."

I looked up from my cereal, which I was pondering rather than eating, and stared at Charlie in shock. I
hadn't been following the conversation—actually, I hadn't been aware that we were having a
conversation—and I wasn't sure what he meant.

"I am home," I mumbled, confused.

Charlie eyed me doubtfully as he answered.

Going for a walk with Edward, up the path, it said. Back soon, B.

"When you didn't come back, I called the Cullens, and no one answered," Charlie said in a low voice.
"Then I called the hospital, and Dr. Gerandy told me that Carlisle was gone."

"Where did they go?" I mumbled.

He stared at me. "Didn't Edward tell you?"

I shook my head, recoiling. The sound of his name unleashed the thing that was clawing inside of me—a

pain that knocked me breathless, astonished me with its force.

Charlie eyed me doubtfully as he answered. "Carlisle took a job with a big hospital in Los Angeles. I
guess they threw a lot of money at him."

Sunny L.A. The last place they would really go. I remembered my nightmare with the mirror… the bright
sunlight shimmering off of his skin—

Agony ripped through me with the memory of his face.

"I want to know if Edward left you alone out there in the middle of the woods," Charlie insisted.

His name sent another wave of torture through me. I shook my head, frantic, desperate to escape the
pain. "It was my fault. He left me right here on the trail, in sight of the house… but I tried to follow him."

Charlie started to say something; childishly, I covered my ears. "I can't talk about this anymore, Dad. I
want to go to my room."

Before he could answer, I scrambled up from the couch and lurched my way up the stairs.

Someone had been in the house to leave a note for Charlie, a note that would lead him to find me. From
the minute that I'd realized this, a horrible suspicion began to grow in my head. I rushed to my room,
shutting and locking the door behind me before I ran to the CD player by my bed.

Everything looked exactly the same as I'd left it. I pressed down on the top of the CD player. The latch
unhooked, and the lid slowly swung open.

It's ridiculous

"It's nothing," he assured me. "Just some bonfires out on the cliffs."

"Bonfires?" I asked. My voice didn't sound curious. It sounded dead.

Charlie frowned. "Some of the kids from the reservation being rowdy," he explained.

"Why?" I wondered dully.

I could tell he didn't want to answer. He looked at the floor under his knees. "They're celebrating the
news." His tone was bitter.

There was only one piece of news I could think of, try as I might not to. And then the pieces snapped
together. "Because the Cullens left," I whispered. "They don't like the Cullens in La Push—I'd forgotten
about that."

The Quileutes had their superstitions about the "cold ones," the blood-drinkers that were enemies to their
tribe, just like they had their legends of the great flood and wolf-men ancestors. Just stories, folklore, to
most of them. Then there were the few that believed. Charlie's good friend Billy Black believed, though
even Jacob, his own son, thought he was full of stupid superstitions. Billy had warned me to stay away
from the Cullens…

The name stirred something inside me, something that began to claw its way toward the surface,
something I knew I didn't want to face.

"It's ridiculous," Charlie spluttered.

We sat in silence for a moment. The sky was no longer black outside the window. Somewhere behind
the rain, the sun was beginning to rise.

"Bella?" Charlie asked.

I looked at him uneasily.

"He left you alone in the woods?" Charlie guessed.

I deflected his question. "How did you know where to find me?" My mind shied away from the inevitable
awareness that was coming, coming quickly now.

"Your note," Charlie answered. surprised. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a
much-abused piece of paper. It was dirty and damp, with multiple creases from being opened and
refolded many times. He unfolded it again, and held it up as evidence. The messy handwriting was
remarkably close to my own.

Why are you standing?

　　"I am late.... eleven, isn't it?" he asked, still not lifting hiseyes.

　　"Yes," muttered Sonia, "oh, yes, it is," she added, hastily, asthough in that lay her means of escape. "My landlady's clock hasjust struck... I heard it myself...."

　　"I've come to you for the last time," Raskolnikov went ongloomily, although this was the first time. "I may perhaps not see youagain..."

　　"Are you... going away?"

　　"I don't know... to-morrow...."

　　"Then you are not coming to Katerina Ivanovna to-morrow?" Sonia'svoice shook.

　　"I don't know. I shall know to-morrow morning.... Never mind that:I've come to say one word...."

　　He raised his brooding eyes to her and suddenly noticed that hewas sitting down while she was all the while standing before him.

　　"Why are you standing? Sit down," he said in a changed voice, gentleand friendly.

　　She sat down. He looked kindly and almost compassionately at her.

　　"How thin you are! What a hand! Quite transparent, like a deadhand."

　　He took her hand. Sonia smiled faintly.

　　"I have always been like that," she said.

　　"Even when you lived at home?"

　　"Yes."

　　"Of course, you were," he added abruptly and the expression of hisface and the sound of his voice changed again suddenly.

　　He looked round him once more.

　　"You rent this room from the Kapernaumovs?"

　　"Yes...."

　　"They live there, through that door?"

　　"Yes.... They have another room like this."

　　"All in one room?"

　　"Yes."

　　"I should be afraid in your room at night," he observed gloomily.

On a broken chair stood a candle in a battered copper candlestick.

　　Chapter Four

　　RASKOLNIKOV WENT straight to the house on the canal bank where Sonialived. It was an old green house of three storeys. He found the porterand obtained from him vague directions as to the whereabouts ofKapernaumov, the tailor. Having found in the corner of the courtyardthe entrance to the dark and narrow staircase, he mounted to thesecond floor and came out into a gallery that ran round the wholesecond storey over the yard. While he was wandering in the darkness,uncertain where to turn for Kapernaumov's door, a door opened threepaces from him; he mechanically took hold of it.

　　"Who is there?" a woman's voice asked uneasily.

　　"It's I... come to see you," answered Raskolnikov and he walked intothe tiny entry.

　　On a broken chair stood a candle in a battered copper candlestick.

　　"It's you! Good heavens!" cried Sonia weakly and she stood rooted tothe spot.

　　"Which is your room? This way?" and Raskolnikov, trying not tolook at her, hastened in.

　　A minute later Sonia, too, came in with the candle, set down thecandlestick and, completely disconcerted, stood before himinexpressibly agitated and apparently frightened by his unexpectedvisit. The colour rushed suddenly to her pale face and tears came intoher eyes... She felt sick and ashamed and happy, too.... Raskolnikovturned away quickly and sat on a chair by the table. He scanned theroom in a rapid glance.

　　It was a large but exceeding low-pitched room, the only one let bythe Kapernaumovs, to whose rooms a closed door led in the wall onthe left. In the opposite side on the right hand wall was anotherdoor, always kept locked. That led to the next flat, which formed aseparate lodging. Sonia's room looked like a barn; it was a veryirregular quadrangle and this gave it a grotesque appearance. A wallwith three windows looking out on to the canal ran aslant so thatone corner formed a very acute angle, and it was difficult to see init without very strong light. The other corner wasdisproportionately obtuse. There was scarcely any furniture in the bigroom: in the corner on the right was a bedstead, beside it, nearestthe door, a chair. A plain, deal table covered by a blue cloth stoodagainst the same wall, close to the door into the other flat. Tworush-bottom chairs stood by the table. On the opposite wall near theacute angle stood a small plain wooden chest of drawers looking, as itwere, lost in a desert. That was all there was in the room. Theyellow, scratched and shabby wall-paper was black in the corners. Itmust have been damp and full of fumes in the winter. There was everysign of poverty; even the bedstead had no curtain.

　　Sonia looked in silence at her visitor, who was so attentively andunceremoniously scrutinising her room, and even began at last totremble with terror, as though she was standing before her judge andthe arbiter of her destinies.

Raskolnikov was waiting for him at the end of the passage.

　　He looked dully at her.

　　"No matter, I shall come.... I'm coming," he muttered in anundertone, as though not fully conscious of what he was saying, and hewent out of the room.

　　"Wicked, heartless egoist!" cried Dounia.

　　"He is insane, but not heartless. He is mad! Don't you see it?You're heartless after that!" Razumihin whispered in her ear,squeezing her hand tightly. "I shall be back directly," he shoutedto the horror-stricken mother, and he ran out of the room.

　　Raskolnikov was waiting for him at the end of the passage.

　　"I knew you would run after me," he said. "Go back to them- bewith them... be with them to-morrow and always.... I... perhaps Ishall come... if I can. Good-bye."

　　And without holding out his hand he walked away.

　　"But where are you going? What are you doing? What's the matter withyou? How can you go on like this?" Razumihin muttered, at his wits'end.

　　Raskolnikov stopped once more.

　　"Once for all, never ask me about anything. I have nothing to tellyou. Don't come to see me. Maybe I'll come here.... Leave me, butdon't leave them. Do you understand me?"

　　It was dark in the corridor, they were standing near the lamp. For aminute they were looking at one another in silence. Razumihinremembered that minute all his life. Raskolnikov's burning andintent eyes grew more penetrating every moment, piercing into hissoul, into his consciousness. Suddenly Razumihin started. Somethingstrange, as it were, passed between them.... Some idea, some hint asit were, slipped, something awful, hideous, and suddenly understood onboth sides.... Razumihin turned pale.

　　"Do you understand now?" said Raskolnikov, his face twitchingnervously. "Go back, go to them," he said suddenly, and turningquickly, he went out of the house.

　　I will not attempt to describe how Razumihin went back to theladies, how he soothed them, how he protested that Rodya needed restin his illness, protested that Rodya was sure to come, that he wouldcome every day, that he was very, very much upset, that he must not beirritated, that he, Razumihin, would watch over him, would get him adoctor, the best doctor, a consultation.... In fact from thatevening Razumihin took his place with them as a son and a brother.

Dounia looked at her brother with incredulous wonder.

　　"Hurrah!" cried Razumihin. "Now, stay, there's a flat here in thishouse, belonging to the same owner. It's a special flat apart, notcommunicating with these lodgings. It's furnished, rent moderate,three rooms. Suppose you take them to begin with. I'll pawn your watchto-morrow and bring you the money, and everything can be arrangedthen. You can all three live together, and Rodya will be with you. Butwhere are you off to, Rodya?"

　　"What, Rodya, you are going already?" Pulcheria Alexandrovna askedin dismay.

　　"At such a minute?" cried Razumihin.

　　Dounia looked at her brother with incredulous wonder. He held hiscap in his hand, he was preparing to leave them.

　　"One would think you were burying me or saying good-bye for ever,"he said somewhat oddly. He attempted to smile, but it did not turn outa smile. "But who knows, perhaps it is the last time we shall see eachother..." he let slip accidentally. It was what he was thinking, andit somehow was uttered aloud.

　　"What is the matter with you?" cried his mother.

　　"Where are you going, Rodya?" asked Dounia rather strangely.

　　"Oh, I'm quite obliged to..." he answered vaguely, as thoughhesitating what he would say. But there was a look of sharpdetermination in his white face.

　　"I meant to say... as I was coming here... I meant to tell you,mother, and you, Dounia, that it would be better for us to part fora time. I feel ill, I am not at peace.... I will come afterwards, Iwill come of myself... when it's possible, I remember you and loveyou.... Leave me, leave me alone. I decided this even before... I'mabsolutely resolved on it. Whatever may come to me, whether I cometo ruin or not, I want to be alone. Forget me altogether, it's better.Don't inquire about me. When I can, I'll come of myself or... I'llsend for you. Perhaps it will all come back, but now if you love me,give me up... else I shall begin to hate you, I feel it.... Good-bye!"

　　"Good God!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Both his mother and hissister were terribly alarmed. Razumihin was also.

　　"Rodya, Rodya, be reconciled with us! Let us be as before!" criedhis poor mother.

　　He turned slowly to the door and slowly went out of the room. Douniaovertook him.

　　"Brother, what are you doing to mother?" she whispered, her eyesflashing with indignation.

Dounia's eyes shone.

　　"And why, why should you go away?" he flowed on ecstatically. "Andwhat are you to do in a little town? The great thing is, you are allhere together and you need one another- you do need one another,believe me. For a time, anyway.... Take me into partnership and Iassure you we'll plan a capital enterprise. Listen! I'll explain itall in detail to you, the whole project! It all flashed into my headthis morning, before anything had happened... I tell you what; Ihave an uncle, I must introduce him to you (a most accommodating andrespectable old man). This uncle has got a capital of a thousandroubles, and he lives on his pension and has no need of that money.For the last two years he has been bothering me to borrow it fromhim and pay him six per cent. interest. I know what that means; hesimply wants to help me. Last year I had no need of it, but thisyear I resolved to borrow it as soon as he arrived. Then you lend meanother thousand of your three and we have enough for a start, sowe'll go into partnership, and what are we going to do?"

　　Then Razumihin began to unfold his project, and he explained atlength that almost all our publishers and booksellers know nothingat all of what they are selling, and for that reason they areusually bad publishers, and that any decent publications pay as a ruleand give a profit, sometimes a considerable one. Razumihin had,indeed, been dreaming of setting up as a publisher. For the last twoyears he had been working in publishers' offices, and knew threeEuropean languages well, though he had told Raskolnikov six daysbefore that he was "schwach" in German with an object of persuadinghim to take half his translation and half the payment for it. He hadtold a lie, then, and Raskolnikov knew he was lying.

　　"Why, why should we let our chance slip when we have one of thechief means of success- money of our own!" cried Razumihin warmly. "Ofcourse there will be a lot of work, but we will work, you, AvdotyaRomanovna, I, Rodion.... You get a splendid profit on some booksnowadays! And the great point of the business is that we shall knowjust what wants translating, and we shall be translating,publishing, learning all at once. I can be of use because I haveexperience. For nearly two years I've been scuttling about among thepublishers, and now I know every detail of their business. You neednot be a saint to make pots, believe me! And why, why should we letour chance slip! Why, I know- and I kept the secret- two or threebooks which one might get a hundred roubles simply for thinking oftranslating and publishing. Indeed, and I would not take fivehundred for the very idea of one of them. And what do you think? IfI were to tell a publisher, I dare say he'd hesitate- they are suchblockheads! And as for the business side, printing, paper, selling,you trust to me, I know my way about. We'll begin in a small way andgo on to a large. In any case it will get us our living and we shallget back our capital."

　　Dounia's eyes shone.

　　"I like what you are saying, Dmitri Prokofitch!" she said.

　　"I know nothing about it, of course," put in Pulcheria Alexandrovna,"it may be a good idea, but again God knows. It's new and untried.Of course, we must remain here at least for a time." She looked atRodya.

　　"What do you think, brother?" said Dounia.

　　"I think he's got a very good idea," he answered. "Of course, it'stoo soon to dream of a publishing firm, but we certainly might bringout five or six books and be sure of success. I know of one bookmyself which would be sure to go well. And as for his being able tomanage it, there's no doubt about that either. He knows thebusiness.... But we can talk it over later...."

God rest her soul

　　"I must confess I don't quite understand him. He offers you tenthousand, and yet says he is not well off. He says he is going away,and in ten minutes he forgets he has said it. Then he says is he goingto be married and has already fixed on the girl.... No doubt he hasa motive, and probably a bad one. But it's odd that he should be soclumsy about it if he had any designs against you.... Of course, Irefused this money on your account, once for all. Altogether, Ithought him very strange.... One might almost think he was mad. ButI may be mistaken; that may only be the part he assumes. The deathof Marfa Petrovna seems to have made a great impression on him."

　　"God rest her soul," exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "I shallalways, always pray for her! Where should we be now, Dounia, withoutthis three thousand! It's as though it had fallen from heaven! Why,Rodya, this morning we had only three roubles in our pocket and Douniaand I were just planning to pawn her watch, so as to avoid borrowingfrom that man until he offered help."

　　Dounia seemed strangely impressed by Svidrigailov's offer. She stillstood meditating.

　　"He has got some terrible plan," she said in a half whisper toherself, almost shuddering.

　　Raskolnikov noticed this disproportionate terror.

　　"I fancy I shall have to see him more than once again," he said toDounia.

　　"We will watch him! I will track him out!" cried Razumihin,vigorously. "I won't lose sight of him. Rodya has given me leave. Hesaid to me himself just now. 'Take care of my sister.' Will you giveme leave, too, Avdotya Romanovna?"

　　Dounia smiled and held out her hand, but the look of anxiety did notleave her face. Pulcheria Alexandrovna gazed at her timidly, but thethree thousand roubles had obviously a soothing effect on her.

　　A quarter of an hour later, they were all engaged in a livelyconversation. Even Raskolnikov listened attentively for some time,though he did not talk. Razumihin was the speaker.

What did Svidrigailov say to you?

　　"No, I, I am more to blame than any one!" said Dounia, kissing andembracing her mother. "I was tempted by his money, but on my honour,brother, I had no idea he was such a base man. If I had seen throughhim before, nothing would have tempted me! Don't blame me, brother!"

　　"God has delivered us! God has delivered us!" Pulcheria Alexandrovnamuttered, but half consciously, as though scarcely able to realisewhat had happened.

　　They were all relieved, and in five minutes they were laughing. Onlynow and then Dounia turned white and frowned, remembering what hadpassed. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was surprised to find that she, too,was glad: she had only that morning thought rupture with Luzhin aterrible misfortune. Razumihin was delighted. He did not yet dare toexpress his joy fully, but he was in a fever of excitement as though aton-weight had fallen off his heart. Now he had the right to devotehis life to them, to serve them.... Anything might happen now! Buthe felt afraid to think of further possibilities and dared not let hisimagination range. But Raskolnikov sat still in the same place, almostsullen and indifferent. Though he had been the most insistent ongetting rid of Luzhin, he seemed now the least concerned at what hadhappened. Dounia could not help thinking that he was still angrywith her, and Pulcheria Alexandrovna watched him timidly.

　　"What did Svidrigailov say to you?" said Dounia, approaching him.

　　"Yes, yes!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

　　Raskolnikov raised his head.

　　"He wants to make you a present of ten thousand roubles and hedesires to see you once in my presence."

　　"See her! On no account!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. "And howdare he offer her money!"

　　Then Raskolnikov repeated (rather drily) his conversation withSvidrigailov, omitting his account of the ghostly visitations of MarfaPetrovna, wishing to avoid all unnecessary talk.

　　"What answer did you give him?" asked Dounia.

　　"At first I said I would not take any message to you. Then he saidthat he would do his utmost to obtain an interview with you without myhelp. He assured me that his passion for you was a passinginfatuation, now he has no feeling for you. He doesn't want you tomarry Luzhin.... His talk was altogether rather muddled."

　　"How do you explain him to yourself, Rodya? How did he strike you?"

Dounia was simply essential to him

　　Pyotr Petrovitch gazed at him for some seconds with a pale face thatworked with anger, then he turned, went out, and rarely has any mancarried away in his heart such vindictive hatred as he felt againstRaskolnikov. Him, and him alone, he blamed for everything. It isnoteworthy that as he went downstairs he still imagined that hiscase was perhaps not utterly lost, and that, so far as the ladies wereconcerned, all might "very well indeed" be set right again.

　　Chapter Three

　　THE FACT was that up to the last moment he had never expected suchan ending; he had been overbearing to the last degree, neverdreaming that two destitute and defenceless women could escape fromhis control. This conviction was strengthened by his vanity andconceit, a conceit to the point of fatuity. Pyotr Petrovitch, whohad made his way up from insignificance, was morbidly given toself-admiration, had the highest opinion of his intelligence andcapacities, and sometimes even gloated in solitude over his image inthe glass. But what he loved and valued above all was the money he hadamassed by his labour, and by all sorts of devices: that money madehim the equal of all who had been his superiors.

　　When he had bitterly reminded Dounia that he had decided to take herin spite of evil report, Pyotr Petrovitch had spoken with perfectsincerity and had, indeed, felt genuinely indignant at such "blackingratitude." And yet, when he made Dounia his offer, he was fullyaware of the groundlessness of all the gossip. The story had beeneverywhere contradicted by Marfa Petrovna, and was by then disbelievedby all the townspeople, who were warm in Dounia'a defence. And hewould not have denied that he knew all that at the time. Yet hestill thought highly of his own resolution in lifting Dounia to hislevel and regarded it as something heroic. In speaking of it toDounia, he had let out the secret feeling he cherished and admired,and he could not understand that others should fail to admire ittoo. He had called on Raskolnikov with the feelings of a benefactorwho is about to reap the fruits of his good deeds and to hearagreeable flattery. And as he went downstairs now, he consideredhimself most undeservedly injured and unrecognised.

　　Dounia was simply essential to him; to do without her wasunthinkable. For many years he had voluptuous dreams of marriage,but he had gone on waiting and amassing money. He brooded with relish,in profound secret, over the image of a girl- virtuous, poor (she mustbe poor), very young, very pretty, of good birth and education, verytimid, one who had suffered much, and was completely humbled beforehim, one who would all her life look on him as her saviour, worshiphim, admire him and only him. How many scenes, how many amorousepisodes he had imagined on this seductive and playful theme, when hiswork was over! And, behold, the dream of so many years was all butrealised; the beauty and education of Avdotya Romanovna hadimpressed him; her helpless position had been a great allurement; inher he had found even more than he dreamed of. Here was a girl ofpride, character, virtue, of education and breeding superior to hisown (he felt that), and this creature would be slavishly gratefulall her life for his heroic condescension, and would humble herself inthe dust before him, and he would have absolute, unbounded powerover her!... Not long before, he had, too, after long reflection andhesitation, made an important change in his career and was nowentering on a wider circle of business. With this change his cherisheddreams of rising into a higher class of society seemed likely to berealised.... He was, in fact, determined to try his fortune inPetersburg. He knew that women could do a very great deal. Thefascination of a charming, virtuous, highly educated woman mightmake his way easier, might do wonders in attracting people to him,throwing an aureole round him, and now everything was in ruins! Thissudden horrible rupture affected him like a clap of thunder; it waslike a hideous joke, an absurdity. He had only been a tiny bitmasterful, had not even time to speak out, had simply made a joke,been carried away- and it had ended so seriously. And, of course, too,he did love Dounia in his own way; he already possessed her in hisdreams- and all at once! No! The next day, the very next day, itmust all be set right, smoothed over, settled. Above all he must crushthat conceited milksop who was the cause of it all. With a sickfeeling he could not help recalling Razumihin too, but, he soonreassured himself on that score; as though a fellow like that could beput on a level with him! The man he really dreaded in earnest wasSvidrigailov.... He had, in short, a great deal to attend to....-

What right have you to speak to her like that?

　　"What insolence!" cried Dounia, springing up from her seat. "I don'twant you to come back again."

　　"What! So that's how it stands!" cried Luzhin, utterly unable to thelast moment to believe in the rupture and so completely thrown outof his reckoning now. "So that's how it stands! But do you know,Avdotya Romanovna, that I might protest?"

　　"What right have you to speak to her like that?" PulcheriaAlexandrovna intervened hotly. "And what can you protest about? Whatrights have you? Am I to give my Dounia to a man like you? Go away,leave us altogether! We are to blame for having agreed to a wrongaction, and I above all...."

　　"But you have bound me, Pulcheria Alexandrovna," Luzhin stormed in afrenzy, "by your promise, and now you deny it and... besides... I havebeen led on account of that into expenses...."

　　This last complaint was so characteristic of Pyotr Petrovitch,that Raskolnikov, pale with anger and with the effort of restrainingit, could not help breaking into laughter. But PulcheriaAlexandrovna was furious.

　　"Expenses? What expenses? Are you speaking of our trunk? But theconductor brought it for nothing for you. Mercy on us, we have boundyou! What are you thinking about, Pyotr Petrovitch, it was you boundus, hand and foot, not we!"

　　"Enough, mother, no more please," Avdotya Romanovna implored. "PyotrPetrovitch, do be kind and go!"

　　"I am going, but one last word," he said, quite unable to controlhimself. "Your mamma seems to have entirely forgotten that I made upmy mind to take you, so to speak, after the gossip of the town hadspread all over the district in regard to your reputation.Disregarding public opinion for your sake and reinstating yourreputation, I certainly might very well reckon on a fitting return,and might indeed look for gratitude on your part. And my eyes haveonly now been opened! I see myself that I may have acted very, veryrecklessly in disregarding the universal verdict...."

　　"Does the fellow want his head smashed?" cried Razumihin, jumpingup.

　　"You are a mean and spiteful man!" cried Dounia.

　　"Not a word! Not a movement!" cried Raskolnikov, holding Razumihinback; then going close up to Luzhin, "Kindly leave the room!" hesaid quietly and distinctly, "and not a word more or..."

Pulcheria Alexandrovna was a little offended.

　　"You may see for yourself, Avdotya Romanovna," he said, "whetherit is possible for us to agree. I hope now that this question is at anend, once and for all. I will withdraw, that I may not hinder thepleasures of family intimacy, and the discussion of secrets." He gotup from his chair and took his hat. "But in withdrawing, I ventureto request that for the future I may be spared similar meetings,and, so to say, compromises. I appeal particularly to you, honouredPulcheria Alexandrovna, on this subject, the more as my letter wasaddressed to you and to no one else."

　　Pulcheria Alexandrovna was a little offended.

　　"You seem to think we are completely under your authority, PyotrPetrovitch. Dounia has told you the reason your desire wasdisregarded, she had the best intentions. And indeed you write asthough you were laying commands upon me. Are we to consider everydesire of yours as a command? Let me tell you on the contrary that youought to show particular delicacy and consideration for us now,because we have thrown up everything, and have come here relying onyou, and so we are in any case in a sense in your hands."

　　"That is not quite true, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, especially at thepresent moment, when the news has come of Marfa Petrovna's legacy,which seems indeed very apropos, judging from the new tone you take tome," he added sarcastically.

　　"Judging from that remark, we may certainly presume that you werereckoning on our helplessness," Dounia observed irritably.

　　"But now in any case I cannot reckon on it, and I particularlydesire not to hinder your discussion of the secret proposals of ArkadyIvanovitch Svidrigailov, which he has entrusted to your brother andwhich have, I perceive, a great and possibly a very agreeable interestfor you."

　　"Good heavens!" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

　　Razumihin could not sit still on his chair.

　　"Aren't you ashamed now, sister?" asked Raskolnikov.

　　"I am ashamed, Rodya," said Dounia. "Pyotr Petrovitch, go away," sheturned to him, white with anger.

　　Pyotr Petrovitch had apparently not at all expected such aconclusion. He had too much confidence in himself, in his power and inthe helplessness of his victims. He could not believe it even now.He turned pale, and his lips quivered.

　　"Avdotyo Romanovna, if I go out of this door now, after such adismissal, then, you may reckon on it, I will never come back.Consider what you are doing. My word is not to be shaken."

"Ha!" I exulted when I heard my feet touch the grass first.

Listening for his landing, I heard something I did not expect. Something loud and much too close. A
thudding heart.

Edward was beside me in the same second, his hands clamped down hard on the tops of my arms.

"Don't breathe," he cautioned me urgently.




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I tried not to panic as I froze mid-breath. My eyes were the only things that moved, wheeling instinctively
to find the source of the sound.

Jacob stood at the line where the forest touched the Cullens' lawn, his arms folded across his body, his
jaw clenched tight. Invisible in the woods behind him, I heard now two larger hearts, and the faint crush
of bracken under huge, pacing paws.

"Carefully, Jacob," Edward said. A snarl from the forest echoed the concern in his voice. "Maybe this
isn't the best way—"

"You think it would be better to let her near the baby first?" Jacob interrupted. "It's safer to see how
Bella does with me. I heal fast."

This was a test? To see if I could not kill Jacob before I tried to not kill Renesmee? I felt sick in the
strangest way—it had nothing to do with my stomach, only my mind. Was this Edward's idea?

I glanced at his face anxiously; Edward seemed to deliberate for a moment, and then his expression
twisted from concern into something else. He shrugged, and there was an undercurrent of hostility in his
voice when he said, "It's your neck, I guess."

I don't understand.

"Explain what?"

Edward shook his head. "I promised. Though I don't know if I really owe him anything at all anymore. . .
." His teeth ground together.

"Edward, I don't understand." Frustration and indignation took over my head.

He stroked my cheek and then smiled gently when my face smoothed out in response, desire
momentarily overruling annoyance. "It's harder than you make it look, I know. I remember."

"I don't like feeling confused."

"I know. And so let's get you home, so that you can see it all for yourself." His eyes ran over the remains
of my dress as he spoke of going home, and he frowned. "Hmm." After a half second of thought, he
unbuttoned his white shirt and held it out for me to put my arms through.

"That bad?"

He grinned.

I slipped my arms into his sleeves and then buttoned it swiftly over my ragged bodice. Of course, that
left him without a shirt, and it was impossible not to find that distracting.

'Til race you," I said, and then cautioned, "no throwing the game this time!"

He dropped my hand and grinned. "On your mark ..."

Finding my way to my new home was simpler than walking down Charlie's street to my old one. Our
scent left a clear and easy trail to follow, even running as fast as I could.

Edward had me beat till we hit the river. I took a chance and made my leap early, trying to use my extra
strength to win.

He slowed our pace further, letting me absorb this.

"What do you mean, she communicates effectively?" I demanded.

"I think it will be easier for you to... see for yourself. It's rather difficult to describe."

I considered that. I knew there was a lot that I needed to see for myself before it would be real. I wasn't
sure how much more I was ready for, so I changed the subject.

"Why is Jacob still here?" I asked. "How can he stand it? Why should he?" My ringing voice trembled a
little. "Why should he have to suffer more?"

"Jacob isn't suffering," he said in a strange new tone. "Though I might be willing to change his condition,"
Edward added through his teeth.




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"Edward!" I hissed, yanking him to a stop (and feeling a little thrill of smugness that I was able to do it).
"How can you say that? Jacob has given up everything to protect us! What I've put him through—!" I
cringed at the dim memory of shame and guilt. It seemed odd now that I had needed him so much then.
That sense of absence without him near had vanished; it must have been a human weakness.

"You'll see exactly how I can say that," Edward muttered. "I promised him that I would let him explain,
but I doubt you'll see it much differently than I do. Of course, I'm often wrong about your thoughts, aren't
I?" He pursed his lips and eyed me.

"Really?"

"It seems a fairly even divide."

"She was warm-blooded," I remembered.

"Yes. She has a heartbeat, though it runs a little bit faster than a human's. Her temperature is a little bit
hotter than usual, too. She sleeps."

"Really?"

"Quite well for a newborn. The only parents in the world who don't need sleep, and our child already
sleeps through the night." He chuckled.

I liked the way he said our child. The words made her more real.

"She has exactly your color eyes—so that didn't get lost, after all." He smiled at me. "They're so
beautiful."

"And the vampire parts?" I asked.

"Her skin seems about as impenetrable as ours. Not that anyone would dream of testing that."

I blinked at him, a little shocked.

"Of course no one would," he assured me again. "Her diet... well, she prefers to drink blood. Carlisle
continues to try to persuade her to drink some baby formula, too, but she doesn't have much patience
with it. Can't say that I

blame her—nasty-smelling stuff, even for human food."

I gaped openly at him now. He made it sound like they were having conversations. "Persuade her?"

"She's intelligent, shockingly so, and progressing at an immense pace. Though she doesn't speak
—yet—she communicates quite effectively."

"Doesn't. Speak. Yet"

Every minute,

I remembered parts of this—twisting my fingers in his hair, tracing the planes of his chest—but other
parts were so new. He was new. It was an entirely different experience with Edward kissing me so
fearlessly, so forcefully. I responded to his intensity, and then suddenly we were falling.

"Oops," I said, and he laughed underneath me. "I didn't mean to tackle you like that. Are you okay?"

He stroked my face. "Slightly better than okay" And then a perplexed expression crossed his face.
"Renesmee?" he asked uncertainly, trying to ascertain what I wanted most in this moment. A very difficult
question to answer, because I wanted so many things at the same time.

I could tell that he wasn't exactly averse to procrastinating our return trip, and it was hard to think about
much besides his skin on mine—there really wasn't that much left of the dress. But my memory of
Renesmee, before and after her birth, was becoming more and more dreamlike to me. More unlikely. All
my memories of her were human memories; an aura of artificiality clung to them. Nothing seemed real
that I hadn't seen with these eyes, touched with these hands.

Every minute, the reality of that little stranger slipped further away.

"Renesmee," I agreed, rueful, and I whipped back up onto my feet, pulling him with me.

22. PROMISED

Thinking of Renesmee brought her to that center-stage place in my strange, new, and roomy but
distractible mind. So many questions.

"Tell me about her," i insisted as he took my hand. Being linked barely slowed us.

"She's like nothing else in the world," he told me, and the sound of an almost religious devotion was there
again in his voice.

I felt a sharp pang of jealousy over this stranger. He knew her and I did not. It wasn't fair.

"How much is she like you? How much like me? Or like I was, anyway."

She whirled and caught the door before it had swung shut,

130

She whirled and caught the door before it had swung shut, rushing through to the
office.  I followed a few inches behind her.  Her swinging hair brushed my hand?
She turned to look at me, still wide-eyed.
"You actually listened to me."  That was a first.
Her small nose wrinkled.  "I smelled the blood."
I stared at her in blank surprise.  "People can't smell blood."
"Well, I can—that's what makes me sick.  It smells like rust?and salt."
My face froze, still staring.
Was she really even human?  She looked human.  She felt soft as a human.  She
smelled human—well, better actually.  She acted human?sort of.  But she didn't think
like a human, or respond like one.
What other option was there, though?
"What?" she demanded.
"It's nothing."
Mike Newton interrupted us then, entering the room with resentful, violent
thoughts.
"You look better," he said to her rudely.
My hand twitched, wanting to teach him some manners.  I would have to watch
myself, or I would end up actually killing this obnoxious boy.
"Just keep your hand in your pocket," she said.  For one wild second, I thought
she was talking to me.
"It's not bleeding anymore," he answered sullenly.  "Are you going back to
class?"
"Are you kidding?  I'd just have to turn around and come back."
That was very good.  I'd thought I was going to have to miss this whole hour with
her, and now I got extra time instead.  I felt greedy, a miser hording over each minute.
"Yeah, I guess?" Mike mumbled.  "So are you going this weekend?  To the
beach?"
Ah, they had plans.  Anger froze me in place.  It was a group trip, though.  I'd
seen some of this in other students' heads.  It wasn't just the two of them.  I was still
furious.  I leaned motionlessly against the counter, trying to control myself.
? 2008 Stephenie Meyer

"Bella?" I shouted.

126

"Bella?" I shouted.
There was no change in her lifeless face when I yelled her name.
My whole body went colder than ice.
I was aware of Mike's aggravated surprise as I sifted furiously through his
thoughts.  He was only thinking of his anger toward me, so I didn't know what was
wrong with Bella.  If he'd done something to harm her, I would annihilate him.
"What's wrong—is she hurt?" I demanded, trying to focus his thoughts.  It was
maddening to have to walk at a human pace.  I should not have called attention to my
approach.
Then I could hear her heart beating and her even breath.  As I watched, she
squeezed her eyes more tightly shut.  That eased some of my panic.
I saw a flicker of memories in Mike's head, a splash of images from the Biology
room.  Bella's head on our table, her fair skin turning green.  Drops of red against the
white cards?
Blood typing.
I stopped where I was, holding my breath.  Her scent was one thing, her flowing
blood was another altogether.
"I think she's fainted," Mike said, anxious and resentful at the same time.  "I
don't know what happened, she didn't even stick her finger."
Relief washed through me, and I breathed again, tasting the air.  Ah, I could smell
the tiny flow of Mike Newton's puncture wound.  Once, that might have appealed to me.
I knelt beside her while Mike hovered next to me, furious at my intervention.
"Bella.  Can you hear me?"
"No," she moaned.  "Go away."
The relief was so exquisite that I laughed.  She was fine.
"I was taking her to the nurse," Mike said.  "But she wouldn't go any farther."
"I'll take her.  You can go back to class," I said dismissively.
Mike's teeth clenched together.  "No.  I'm supposed to do it."
I wasn't going to stand around arguing with the wretch.
Thrilled and terrified, half-grateful to and half-aggrieved by the predicament
which made touching her a necessity, I gently lifted Bella from the sidewalk and held her
? 2008 Stephenie Meyer

She wanted a warning?

123
She wanted a warning?  Then being ignored by me must be a bad thing?  I
smiled.
"That sounds fair," I agreed.
"Thanks," she said, looking up.  Her face was so relieved that I wanted to laugh
with my own relief.
"Then can I have one in return?" I asked hopefully.
"One," she allowed.
"Tell me one theory."
She flushed.  "Not that one."
"You didn't qualify, you just promised one answer," I argued.
"And you've broken promises yourself," she argued back.
She had me there.
"Just one theory—I won't laugh."
"Yes, you will."  She seemed very sure of that, though I couldn't imagine
anything that would be funny about it.
I gave persuasion another try.  I stared deep into her eyes—an easy thing to do,
with eyes so deep—and whispered, "Please?"
She blinked, and her face went blank.
Well, that wasn't exactly the reaction I'd been going for.
"Er, what?" she asked.  She looked dizzy.  What was wrong with her?
But I wasn't giving up yet.
"Please tell me just one little theory," I pleaded in my soft, non-scary voice,
holding her eyes in mine.
To my surprise and satisfaction, it finally worked.
"Um, well, bitten by a radioactive spider?"
Comic books?  No wonder she thought I would laugh.
"That's not very creative," I chided her, trying to hide my fresh relief.
"I'm sorry, that's all I've got," she said, offended.
This relieved me even more.  I was able to tease her again.
"You're not even close."
"No spiders?"
? 2008 Stephenie Meyer

I stared at Bella

122

I stared at Bella, wondering how I could possibly do anything right by her, until
the silent shouting in Mike Newton's head distracted me.
He was so irate that it made me chuckle.
"What?" she demanded.
"Your boyfriend seems to think I'm being unpleasant to you—he's debating
whether or not to come break up our fight."  I would love to see him try.  I laughed again.
"I don't know who you're talking about," she said in an icy voice.  "But I'm sure
you're wrong anyway."
I very much enjoyed the way she disowned him with her dismissive sentence.
"I'm not.  I told you, most people are easy to read."
"Except me, of course."
"Yes.  Except for you."  Did she have to be the exception to everything?
Wouldn't it have been more fair—considering everything else I had to deal with now—if
I could have at least heard something from her head?  Was that so much to ask?  "I
wonder why that is?"
I stared into her eyes, trying again?
She looked away.  She opened her lemonade and took a quick drink, her eyes on
the table.
"Aren't you hungry?" I asked.
"No."  She eyed the empty table between us.  "You?"
"No, I'm not hungry," I said.  I was definitely not that.
She stared at the table her lips pursed.  I waited.
"Could you do me a favor?" she asked, suddenly meeting my gaze again.
What would she want from me?  Would she ask for the truth that I wasn't allowed
to tell her—the truth I didn't want her to ever, ever know?
"That depends on what you want."
"It's not much," she promised.
I waited, curious again.
"I just wondered?" she said slowly, staring at the lemonade bottle, tracing its lip
with her littlest finger.  "If you could warn me beforehand the next time you decide to
ignore me for my own good?  Just so I'm prepared."
? 2008 Stephenie Meyer

Idiot.

117

Idiot.
Rosalie and I had never had an easy relationship—I'd offended her the very first
time she'd heard me speak, and it was downhill from there—but it seemed like she was
even more ill-tempered than usual the last few days.  I sighed.  Rosalie made everything
about herself.
Jasper gave me half a smile as he walked by.
Good luck, he thought doubtfully.
Emmett rolled his eyes and shook his head.
Lost his mind, poor kid.
Alice was beaming, her teeth shining too brightly.
Can I talk to Bella now??
"Keep out of it," I said under my breath.
Her face fell, and then brightened again.
Fine.  Be stubborn.  It's only a matter of time.
I sighed again.
Don't forget about today's biology lab, she reminded me.
I nodded.  No, I hadn't forgotten that.
While I waited for Bella to arrive, I followed her in the eyes of the freshman who
was walking behind Jessica on his way to the cafeteria.  Jessica was babbling about the
upcoming dance, but Bella said nothing in response.  Not that Jessica gave her much of a
chance.
The moment Bella walked through the door, her eyes flashed to the table where
my siblings sat.  She stared for a moment, and then her forehead crumpled and her eyes
dropped to the floor.  She hadn't noticed me here.
She looked so?sad.  I felt a powerful urge to get up and go to her side, to
comfort her somehow, only I didn't know what she would find comforting.  I had no idea
what made her look that way.  Jessica continued to jabber about the dance.  Was Bella
sad that she was going to miss it?  That didn't seem likely?
But that could be remedied, if she wished.
She bought a drink for her lunch and nothing else.  Was that right?  Didn't she
need more nutrition than that?  I'd never paid much attention to a human's diet before.
? 2008 Stephenie Meyer

It was easy for me to do the same.

Strange, but it helped her. Her teeth cut through the fur and skin of her kill's shoulder, tearing away a
thick slab of streaming flesh. Rather than wince away as her human thoughts wanted to, she let her
wolf-self react instinctively. It was kind of a numbing thing, a thoughtless thing. It let her eat in peace.

It was easy for me to do the same. And I was glad I hadn't forgotten this. This would be my life again
soon.

Was Leah going to be a part of that life? A week ago, I wouldve found that idea beyond horrifying. I
wouldn't've

been able to stand it. But I knew her better now. And, relieved from the constant pain, she wasn't the
same wolf. Not the same girl.

We ate together until we both were full.

Thanks,she told me later as she was cleaning her muzzle and paws against the wet grass. I didn't bother;
it had just started to drizzle and we had to swim the river again on our way back. I'd get clean enough.
That wasn't so bad, thinking your way.

You're welcome.

Seth was dragging when we hit the perimeter. I told him to get some sleep; Leah and I would take over
the patrol. Seth's mind faded into unconsciousness just seconds later.

You headed back to the bloodsuckers?Leah asked.

Maybe.

It's hard for you to be there, but hard to stay away, too. I know how that feels.

But I couldn't see Leah doing that.

Of course. But none of that applies tome. / was on my way out anyway. I'll get a job somewhere
away from La Push. Maybe take some courses at a community college. Get into yoga and
meditation to work on my temper issues.... And stay a part of this pack for the sake of my mental
well-being. Jacob— you can see how that makes sense, right? I won't bother you, you won't
bother me, everyone is happy.

I turned back and started loping slowly toward the west.

This is a bit much to deal with, Leah. Let me think about it, 'kay?

Sure. Take your time.

It took us longer to make the run back. I wasn't trying for speed. I was just trying to concentrate enough
that I wouldn't plow headfirst into a tree. Seth was grumbling a little bit in the back of my head, but I was
able to ignore him. He knew I was right. He wasn't going to abandon his mom. He would go back to La
Push and protect the tribe like he should.

But I couldn't see Leah doing that. And that was just plain scary.

A pack of the two of us? No matter the physical distance, I couldn't imagine the... the intimacy of that
situation. I wondered if she'd really thought it through, or if she was just desperate to stay free.

Leah didn't say anything as I chewed it over. It was like she was trying to prove how easy it would be if
it was just us.

We ran into a herd of black-tailed deer just as the sun was coming up, brightening the clouds a little bit
behind us. Leah sighed internally but didn't hesitate. Her lunge was clean and efficient—graceful, even.
She took down the largest one, the buck, before the startled animal fully understood the danger.
Not to be outdone, I swooped down on the next largest deer, snapping her neck between my jaws
quickly, so she wouldn't feel unnecessary pain. I could feel Leah's disgust warring with her hunger, and I
tried to make it easier for her by letting the wolf in me have my head. I'd lived all-wolf for long enough
that I knew how to be the animal completely, to see his way and think his way. I let the practical instincts
take over, letting her feel that, too. She hesitated for a second, but then, tentatively, she seemed to reach
out with her mind and try to see my way. It felt very strange—our minds were more closely linked than
they had ever been before, because we both were trying to think together.

I didn't know what to say.

The shock shot through my legs, locking my joints. She blew past me and then put on the brakes.
Slowly, she walked back to where I was frozen in place.

/ won't be a pain, I swear. I won't follow you around. You can go wherever you want, and I'll go
where I want. You'll only have to put up with me when we're both wolves. She paced back and forth
in front of me, swishing her long gray tail nervously. And, as I'm planning on quitting as soon as I can

manage it... maybe that won't be so often.

I didn't know what to say.

I'm happier now, as a part of your pack, than I have been in years.

I want to stay, too,Seth thought quietly. I hadn't realized he'd been paying much attention to us as he ran
the perimeter. / like this pack.

Hey, now! Seth, this isn't going to be a pack much longer.I tried to put my thoughts together so they
would convince him. We've got a purpose now, but when... after that's over, I'm just going to go
wolf. Seth, you need a purpose. You're a good kid. You're the kind of person who always has a
crusade. And there's no way you're leaving La Push now. You're going to graduate from high
school and do something with your life. You're going to take care of Sue.

My issues are not going to mess up your future.

But —

Jacob is rightLeah seconded.

You're agreeing with me?

She didn't add anything for a few minutes;

Yum, yum,she thought sourly.

It's all in your head,I told her. That's the way wolves eat. It's natural. It tastes fine. If you didn't
think about it from a human perspective—

Forget the pep talk, Jacob. I'll hunt I don't have to like it

Sure, sure,I agreed easily. It wasn't my business if she wanted to make things harder for herself.

She didn't add anything for a few minutes; I started thinking about turning back.

Thank you,Leah suddenly told me in a much different tone.

For?

For letting me be. For letting me stay. You've been nicer than I had any right to expect, Jacob.

Er, no problem. Actually, I mean that. I don't mind having you here like I thought I would.

She snorted, but it was a playful sound. What a glowing commendation!

Don't let it go to your head.

Okay— if you don't let this go to yours.She paused for a second. / think you make a good Alpha.
Not in the same way Sam does, but in your own way. You're worth following, Jacob.

My mind went blank with surprise. It took me a second to recover enough to respond.

Er, thanks. Not totally sure I'll be able to stop that one from going to my head, though. Where did that
come from?

She didn't answer right away, and I followed the wordless direction of her thoughts. She was thinking
about the future—about what I'd said to Jared the other morning. About how the time would be up soon,
and then I'd go back to the forest. About how I'd promised that she and Seth would return to the pack
when the Cullens were gone___

/ want to stay with you, she told me.