ROSALIE HESITATED IN THE DOORWAY, HER BREATHTAKing face unsure.

“Of course,” I replied, my voice an octave high with surprise. “Come on in.”

I sat up, sliding to the end of the sofa to make room. My stomach twisted nervously as the one Cullen who did not like me moved silently to sit down in the open space. I tried to come up with a reason why she would want to see me, but my mind was a blank on that point.

“Do you mind talking to me for a few minutes?” she asked. “I didn’t wake you or anything, did I?” Her eyes shifted to the stripped bed and back to my couch.

“No, I was awake. Sure, we can talk.” I wondered if she could hear the alarm in my voice as clearly as I could.

She laughed lightly, and it sounded like a chorus of bells. “He so rarely leaves you alone,” she said. “I figured I’d better make the best of this opportunity.”

What did she want to say that couldn’t be said in front of Edward? My hands twisted and untwisted around the edge of the comforter.

“Please don’t think I’m horribly interfering,” Rosalie said, her voice gentle and almost pleading. She folded her hands in her lap and looked down at them as she spoke. “I’m sure I’ve hurt your feelings enough in the past, and I don’t want to do that again.”

“Don’t worry about it, Rosalie. My feelings are great. What is it?”

She laughed again, sounding oddly embarrassed. “I’m going to try to tell you why I think you should stay human — why I would stay human if I were you.”

“Oh.”

She smiled at the shocked tone of my voice, and then she sighed.

“Did Edward ever tell you what led to this?” she asked, gesturing to her glorious immortal body.

I nodded slowly, suddenly somber. “He said it was close to what happened to me that time in Port Angeles, only no one was there to save you.” I shuddered at the memory.

“Is that really all he told you?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, my voice blank with confusion. “Was there more?”

She looked up at me and smiled; it was a harsh, bitter — but still stunning — expression.

“Yes,” she said. “There was more.”

I waited while she stared out the window. She seemed to be trying to calm herself.

“Would you like to hear my story, Bella? It doesn’t have a happy ending — but which of ours does? If we had happy endings, we’d all be under gravestones now.”

I nodded, though I was frightened by the edge in her voice.

“I lived in a different world than you do, Bella. My human world was a much simpler place. It was nineteen thirty-three. I was eighteen, and I was beautiful. My life was perfect.”

She stared out the window at the silver clouds, her expression far away.

“My parents were thoroughly middle class. My father had a stable job in a bank, something I realize now that he was smug about — he saw his prosperity as a reward for talent and hard work, rather than acknowledging the luck involved. I took it all for granted then; in my home, it was as if the Great Depression was only a troublesome rumor. Of course I saw the poor people, the ones who weren’t as lucky. My father left me with the impression that they’d brought their troubles on themselves.

“It was my mother’s job to keep our house — and myself and my two younger brothers — in spotless order. It was clear that I was both her first priority and her favorite. I didn’t fully understand at the time, but I was always vaguely aware that my parents weren’t satisfied with what they had, even if it was so much more than most. They wanted more. They had social aspirations — social climbers, I suppose you could call them. My beauty was like a gift to them. They saw so much more potential in it than I did.

“They weren’t satisfied, but I was. I was thrilled to be me, to be Rosalie Hale. Pleased that men’s eyes watched me everywhere I went, from the year I turned twelve. Delighted that my girlfriends sighed with envy when they touched my hair. Happy that my mother was proud of me and that my father liked to buy me pretty dresses.

“I knew what I wanted out of life, and there didn’t seem to be any way that I wouldn’t get exactly what I wanted. I wanted to be loved, to be adored. I wanted to have a huge, flowery wedding, where everyone in town would watch me walk down the aisle on my father’s arm and think I was the most beautiful thing they’d ever seen. Admiration was like air to me, Bella. I was silly and shallow, but I was content.” She smiled, amused at her own evaluation.

“My parents’ influence had been such that I also wanted the material things of life. I wanted a big house with elegant furnishings that someone else would clean and a modern kitchen that someone else would cook in. As I said, shallow. Young and very shallow. And I didn’t see any reason why I wouldn’t get these things.

“There were a few things I wanted that were more meaningful. One thing in particular. My very closest friend was a girl named Vera. She married young, just seventeen. She married a man my parents would never have considered for me — a carpenter. A year later she had a son, a beautiful little boy with dimples and curly black hair. It was the first time I’d ever felt truly jealous of anyone else in my entire life.”

She looked at me with unfathomable eyes. “It was a different time. I was the same age as you, but I was ready for it all. I yearned for my own little baby. I wanted my own house and a husband who would kiss me when he got home from work — just like Vera. Only I had a very different kind of house in mind. . . .”

It was hard for me to imagine the world that Rosalie had known. Her story sounded more like a fairy tale than history to me. With a slight shock, I realized that this was very close to the world that Edward would have experienced when he was human, the world he had grown up in. I wondered — while Rosalie sat silent for a moment — if my world seemed as baffling to him as Rosalie’s did to me?

Rosalie sighed, and when she spoke again her voice was different, the wistfulness gone.

“In Rochester, there was one royal family — the Kings, ironically enough. Royce King owned the bank my father worked at, and nearly every other really profitable business in town. That’s how his son, Royce King the Second” — her mouth twisted around the name, it came out through her teeth — “saw me the first time. He was going to take over at the bank, and so he began overseeing the different positions. Two days later, my mother conveniently forgot to send my father’s lunch to work with him. I remember being confused when she insisted that I wear my white organza and roll my hair up just to run over to the bank.” Rosalie laughed without humor.

“I didn’t notice Royce watching me particularly. Everyone watched me. But that night the first of the roses came. Every night of our courtship, he sent a bouquet of roses to me. My room was always overflowing with them. It got to the point that I would smell like roses when I left the house.

“Royce was handsome, too. He had lighter hair than I did, and pale blue eyes. He said my eyes were like violets, and then those started showing up alongside the roses.

“My parents approved — that’s putting it mildly. This was everything they’d dreamed of. And Royce seemed to be everything I’d dreamed of. The fairy tale prince, come to make me a princess. Everything I wanted, yet it was still no more than I expected. We were engaged before I’d known him for two months.

“We didn’t spend a great deal of time alone with each other. Royce told me he had many responsibilities at work, and, when we were together, he liked people to look at us, to see me on his arm. I liked that, too. There were lots of parties, dancing, and pretty dresses. When you were a King, every door was open for you, every red carpet rolled out to greet you.

“It wasn’t a long engagement. Plans went ahead for the most lavish wedding. It was going to be everything I’d ever wanted. I was completely happy. When I called at Vera’s, I no longer felt jealous. I pictured my fair-haired children playing on the huge lawns of the Kings’ estate, and I pitied her.”

Rosalie broke off suddenly, clenching her teeth together. It pulled me out of her story, and I realized that the horror was not far off. There would be no happy ending, as she’d promised. I wondered if this was why she had so much more bitterness in her than the rest of them — because she’d been within reach of everything she’d wanted when her human life was cut short.

“I was at Vera’s that night,” Rosalie whispered. Her face was smooth as marble, and as hard. “Her little Henry really was adorable, all smiles and dimples — he was just sitting up on his own. Vera walked me to the door as I was leaving, her baby in her arms and her husband at her side, his arm around her waist. He kissed her on the cheek when he thought I wasn’t looking. That bothered me. When Royce kissed me, it wasn’t quite the same — not so sweet somehow. . . . I shoved that thought aside. Royce was my prince. Someday, I would be queen.”

It was hard to tell in the moonlight, but it looked like her bone white face got paler.

“It was dark in the streets, the lamps already on. I hadn’t realized how late it was.” She continued to whisper almost inaudibly. “It was cold, too. Very cold for late April. The wedding was only a week away, and I was worrying about the weather as I hurried home — I can remember that clearly. I remember every detail about that night. I clung to it so hard . . . in the beginning. I thought of nothing else. And so I remember this, when so many pleasant memories have faded away completely. . . .”

She sighed, and began whispering again. “Yes, I was worrying about the weather. . . . I didn’t want to have to move the wedding indoors. . . .

“I was a few streets from my house when I heard them. A cluster of men under a broken streetlamp, laughing too loud. Drunk. I wished I’d called my father to escort me home, but the way was so short, it seemed silly. And then he called my name.

“‘Rose!’ he yelled, and the others laughed stupidly.

“I hadn’t realized the drunks were so well dressed. It was Royce and some of his friends, sons of other rich men.

“‘Here’s my Rose!’ Royce shouted, laughing with them, sounding just as stupid. ‘You’re late. We’re cold, you’ve kept us waiting so long.’”

“I’d never seen him drink before. A toast, now and then, at a party. He’d told me he didn’t like champagne. I hadn’t realized that he preferred something much stronger.