𝙰𝙽 𝙸𝙽𝙳𝙴𝙿𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴𝙽𝚃 & 𝚂𝙴𝙻𝙴𝙲𝚃𝙸𝚅𝙴 𝚆𝚁𝙸𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙱𝙻𝙾𝙶 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝐄𝐃𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐍 𝙾𝙵 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚃𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃 𝚂𝙰𝙶𝙰. 𝙿𝚁𝙸𝚅𝙰𝚃𝙴, 𝚂𝙴𝙻𝙴𝙲𝚃𝙸𝚅𝙴, 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙷𝙴𝙰𝚅𝙸𝙻𝚈 𝙲𝙰𝙽𝙾𝙽 𝙳𝙸𝚅𝙴𝚁𝙶𝙴𝙽𝚃. 𝚆𝚁𝙸𝚃𝚃𝙴𝙽 𝙱𝚈 ℝℍ𝕐𝕊. 𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐖 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍.

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most of the bodies were found in their beds, waxy and weightless, clutching to their bedsheets or their throats with their white faces tied up with the distress of their deaths ( asphyxiation, many presumed ). there were no discernible symptoms in those that were taken by this sickness, only that they were alive one morning and dead before the next. no one had seemed to take notice of the lesions, which stuck out glaringly to edward as he stared down at the lifeless girl, her small fingers positioned despairingly near her chin, wound up piteously in her own hair. he guessed her scarcely older than eight.

at sunrise the vessel awoke with a shudder, jerking violently in each direction, fighting the crashing of the tide before succumbing to the soft earth and lying utterly still upon it. the ss balfour settled in the port of marseille just before nine, the coach awaiting him as if it had been fixed there, waiting patiently for him all his life. he thanked the driver, tipping him generously, entertaining an idle vision of killing this man as a burning fever rose through his chest, tightening his throat. he shunned the thought, forcing his mind over instead to the clicking of horse hooves, to the pen and open notebook he clutched gravely, etching senseless and distracting shapes.

as carlisle had warned him, giulio did not make himself easy to find. days went on, then weeks which turned to months, the hours searching and researching drumming by to no foreseeable end. it was just at the precipice of losing hope that giulio found me.

at a library, in some unremarkable place he could not have cared to remember the name of, in a place that edward had intended only to receive directions. there he sat ( he was sure of it ), his large smooth hands folded neatly in front of him, gazing impassively upon edward as if he had anticipated his arrival, as if like the carriage that awaited him on the shoreline of france this man had been sat at this very library, awaiting edward all his life.

“ of course not. ” he murmured to her, his voice faintly a whisper. it was the night carlisle had taken her life; this girl, feeling now as an absolute stranger in their home. he couldn’t make any sense of it. why hadn’t carlisle, finding her clearly calling out for merciful death, gently eased her suffering into sweet reprieve? why instead had he wretched her soul from her mortal body with the hand of a backwards god, calling a blackness into her like fever? during what i can recall of the following decade, i suppose i felt betrayed.