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Chapter Four
By the time Elena reached her locker, the numbness was wearing off and the lump in her throat was
trying to dissolve into tears. But she wouldn't cry at school, she told herself, she wouldn't. After
closing her locker, she made for the main exit.
For the second day in a row, she was coming home from school right after the last bell, and alone.
Aunt Judith wouldn't be able to cope. But when Elena reached her house, Aunt Judith's car was not in
the driveway; she and Margaret must have gone out to the market. The house was still and peaceful as
Elena let herself in.
She was glad for that stillness; she wanted to be alone right now. But, on the other hand, she didn't
exactly know what to do with herself.
Now that she finally could cry, she found that tears wouldn't come. She let her backpack sag to the
floor in the front hall and walked slowly into the living room.
It was a handsome, impressive room, the only part of the house besides Elena's bedroom that
belonged to the original structure. That first house had been built before 1861, and had been almost
completely burned in the Civil War. All that could be saved was this room, with its elaborate
fireplace framed by scrolled molding, and the big bedroom above. Elena's father's greatgrandfather
had built a new house, and Gilberts had lived in it ever since.
Elena turned to look out of one of the ceiling-to-floor windows. The glass was so old that it was
thick and wavery, and everything outside was distorted, looking slightly tipsy. She remembered the
first time her father had showed her that wavery old glass, when she had been younger than Margaret
was now.
The fullness in her throat was back, but still no tears would come. Everything inside her was
contradictory. She didn't want company, and yet she was achingly lonely. She did want to think, but
now that she was trying to, her thoughts eluded her like mice running from a white owl.
White owl… hunting bird… flesh eater… crow, she thought. "Biggest crow I've ever seen," Matt
had said.
Her eyes stung again. Poor Matt. She'd hurt him, but he'd been so nice about it. He'd even been nice
to Stefan.
Stefan. Her heart thudded once, hard, squeezing two hot tears out of her eyes. There, she was crying
at last. She was crying with anger and humiliation and frustration – and what else?
What had she really lost today? What did she really feel for this stranger, this Stefan Salvatore? He
was a challenge, yes, and that made him different, interesting. Stefan was exotic… exciting.
Funny, that was what guys had sometimes told Elena she was. And later she heard from them, or
from their friends or sisters, how nervous they were before going out with her, how their palms got
sweaty and their stomachs were full of butterflies. Elena had always found such stories amusing. No
boy she'd ever met in her life had made her nervous.