Jeweliette

Jacob was sitting in the garage, working on his bike, humming tunelessly along with the radio. He put a hand to his eyes, and rubbed them; he was getting tired. Then he realised his hand had been oily. He picked up a rag, and wiped off the grime impatiently. Then he stopped, and looked up. Quil was running towards him. "What is it?" he asked, throwing down his spanner and jumping to his feet. "I was patrolling. There's something – someone – it's Seth." Estelle looked around anxiously. She had been standing next to the truck for some time. Her cellphone rang. "Seth?" she answered. "It's Jake" came the reply. "Where are you?"

It was the day after Charlie's wedding, and Estelle sat with Renesmee in her tiny room at the Black's. Estelle's room had not stayed plain and poky for long. A comforting glow came from the leadlight lamp on the nightstand; now more comfortable in her new surroundings, she'd brought it over. There were pictures all over the wall, put up haphazardly with putty; a jumble of prints, drawings, postcards, pages from magazines. Fixed to the nightstand, to the side where it could not be seen unless you were lying down on the bed, a tiny sketch of Carlisle. Outside, the very first vestiges of the evening were beginning to creep over the tops of t

Estelle was sitting in her room when a thud outside announced Seth's arrival. The room had changed considerably since the days when Edward's preference for clean simplicity had furnished it with practical shelves and modern furniture. One of the characteristics of almost unlimited wealth - such as Carlisle possessed - was the speed with which things could be accumulated. Estelle's acquaintance with Ebay had only contributed. Estelle now had a chaise-longue upholstered in mint-green  taffeta; beside it, an Art Nouveau lamp on a table with an iPod dock and a pile of paperbacks. A painted white dresser stood in the corner; on it a venetian glas

She hadn't been afraid for a long time. Lonely, yes. Sad, certainly. Despairing, far too frequently. But the creeping feeling of panic, not in a very long time. He wasn't that tall, really. Nor strong, not compared to others he had encountered and against whom he had had to employ his cunning. But she was tiny, little more than five feet. Dressed in a concoction of pink ribbons and white lace, with jewels at her white throat and in her powdered hair, she looked more like a doll than a woman. "After all this time" she whispered, beseechingly. His hands were around her throat, the lace of his cuffs mingling with the lace of her collar, his sk