From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: Sun,  8 Aug 2010 21:09:59 -0500 (CDT)
Subject: Paracelsus 1/14 by prufrocks love
Source: direct

Reply To: prufrockslove@yahoo.com


TITLE: Paracelsus
AUTHOR: prufrock's love
GENRE: AU, Pre-X-files
RATING: R
DISCLIAMER: FOX Network owns The X-Files. No
copyright infringement is intended and no money is
being made from the use of these characters.
SUMMARY: Georgia low country, summer, 1865. A lost 
soldier, a bend in the road, a passing stranger, and 
a chance at a life he was never supposed to have.

  *~*~*~*

Paracelsus: Prologue
  
  *~*~*~*
  
The year before she and Mulder were born, Mr. Robert
Browning wrote of the great Paracelsus's love of a
woman, saying Paracelsus and his lover were two
halves of one dissevered world.  When the hour is
late, when he is alone beside the campfire, he thinks
of that single line from the epic poem, turning it
over in his mind as he watches the stars and waits
for sleep to come.  Man and woman: two parts of a
divided world, two halves of one severed soul,
allowed to touch only briefly in a lifetime.
  
Often, in his dreams, they have a family of their
own: three or four dark-haired, high-spirited boys
and a few pretty little girls running around.  Or,
sometimes, she carries their first child and rests
one hand on her belly as she walks with him.  They
have a home in Boston or Georgetown near his parents,
so they can visit often.  Mulder isn't fifteen
anymore, but neither is she.  She's grown from a
beautiful girl into a stunning woman: intelligent,
elegant, and in love with him.  
  
In this dream, she's in her early twenties and
wearing a blue riding habit that shows off her slim
figure.  She rides sidesaddle as he leads the horse
through the quiet woods.  It's a warm afternoon, and
wild rosebushes line the path.  He wears a dress
uniform, the buttons and boots polished to a high
shine.  The insignia indicates he's a decorated 
officer in the US Army. 

His father is proud of him.
  
"There's something on your mind, Fox," she says, her
words slowed and soften by her southern accent.
"About secession? Is it really coming?"
   
"Yes," he answers. "I think it's unavoidable, now.
Next month, Mr. Lincoln will be elected. When he is,
South Carolina will secede from the union, and the
rest of the south will follow."  
  
"There will be a war."
  
He nods. "Many officers are talking about resigning
their commission and returning home to fight for the
south," he tells her as he leads the mare. "Robert E.
Lee will go, and so will many other generals."
  
"What will you do?" she asks softly.  
  
He looks up at her.  The sunlight outlines her head,
making her black hair shimmer.  Her eyes are rimmed
with thick, dark lashes, and they shine as she
watches him.  
  
"I don't know," he answers honestly. "The north will
need experienced officers, but..."
  
"But you do not want to fight.  Not for the north,
but not for the south, either."
  
"No," he admits. "There is no winning a war like this
one, on either side.  Men to not seem to realize
that: it can only end in death and ruin."
  
"You will fight, though."
  
He nods.  She knows him well.  
  
It is September 1860, and a civil war is brewing a
like dark storm on the horizon.  He will fight in the
war, and, November 1863, he will die in the war - cut
down on a battlefield in Tennessee.  She will hold
him as he bleeds to death. She will cry.
  
They've reached a turnoff from the path, and he ties
the reins to a tree branch.  She slips her boot out
of the stirrup, and he helps her slide to the ground.
He kisses her. She takes his hand and follows him 
through the trees, to an abandoned stone church, the
roof open to the sky. They have been here before; it
is one of their secrets. Today, he unfolds a blanket
over the grass in the church foyer: preparation for a
picnic for which they'd packed no food.
  
Their parents trust them. They've been friends since
childhood, and there is no question that they will
marry someday.  Senator Mulder's only son and
Representative Kavanaugh's older daughter: his mother
will throw the society wedding of the year.  
  
Neither of them particularly cares for society.  
  
She takes off her jacket, and he takes off his.  He
slides his suspenders off his shoulders and loosens
his collar.  They kneel on the blanket, facing each
other.  He strokes her hair, and she caresses his 
face.  He puts his hand on her waist, pulling her
body against his as they kiss.
  
They've never made love.  They kiss and touch,
though, discovering together what feels nice.  When
he is away, first at West Point and now at his
military post, this is what he remembers.  He's
memorized how her hair and skin smells, and how her
breathing changes when he touches her. Sometimes,
when he's alone at night, he thinks about her and
touches himself.  He's yet to go blind.
  
"I worry so much about you.  And now, with a war..."
she confesses, her lips brushing against his. "I know
you have to go, but I don't want you to.  I'm so
afraid you won't come back."
  
"I will," he promises her. "On way or another, I
will.  I'll find you. I'll wait for you."
   
He unbuttons the front of her cotton blouse, then the
corset cover.  Her breasts are pushed high by her
stays, rounded into two fair globes.  He kisses the
valley between them, and she shivers.  She likes it
when he touches her; that is their other secret.
  
"When, when you're away," she asks in a hesitant
whisper. "Are there other girls?"
  
"No.  Never." He raises her breast from the corset
and covers the nipple with his mouth, sucking.  She
gasps at the new sensation.  Her fingers tighten in
his hair. "There's never been anyone but you," he
adds as he kisses across her shoulders. 
  
He's telling the truth, and she believes him.
  
"If the war comes, Daddy won't let us be married next
fall," she says. "Not if you fight for the north. Not
until the war is over."
  
"Then I'll fight for the south."
  
"Fight against your father?" she asks. "For a cause
you don't believe in?  No."
  
He raises his head, looking down at her pretty face.
The country is choosing sides, and, as a soldier, he
must throw in his lot with one or the other.  There
is no neutral ground, and, either way, he will lose.
  
"Then marry me now," he says impulsively. "Tonight.
 We'll run away. We'll elope."
  
"We can't do that," she answers, always the voice of
reason. "Your mother would just die.  And where would
we live?"
  
"I don't care.  We've waited so long.  I can't wait
any longer."
  
She looks at him for a long moment, and then lowers
her eyes.  They can't disappoint their families by
eloping, and her father won't let them be married
now, while Mulder is stationed out west, fighting the 
Indians.  Once the war comes, their fathers will
become political enemies, and Mulder will be lucky to
get to see her, let alone marry her. 
  
"Then don't wait," she whispers.  Her hand moves
down, sliding over the front of his trousers.  This
fascinates her: how his body becomes hard for hers.  
  
"We can't.  We shouldn't-" he starts, then moans,
trying not to lose control. "Oh God..."
  
"Like this?" she asks, rubbing the hard bulge that
grows beneath the wool fabric.
  
He nods wordlessly, unable to speak.
  
She unbuttons his trousers, then the flannel drawers
underneath, and eases them down over his erection.
She pauses, inhaling in surprise. The last time she
saw him nude, they were children. He doesn't look
like the paintings of male cherubs that she's seen.
  
She runs her fingertips over the shaft. "Show me,"
she asks and he puts his hand over hers, teaching her
how to touch a man.  He lets his head fall back,
gritting his teeth.  The pressure builds inside him.
  
"Are you sure?" he asks while he still can.
  
Silently, she stops and lies back on the blanket,
waiting for him.  He pushes up her skirt, petticoat,
and chemise, and then eases his hands over her
pantalets, to the opening at the crotch.  The hair
there is soft, and her hips shift as he touches her.
  
He's never touched her there before.  He's never
touched any woman.
  
She closes her eyes, trusting him.  
  
He slips one finger inside her, making sure he
understands the basics of female anatomy.  She feels
warm and slick, like the inside of his cheek. He
pushes two fingers inside her and she whimpers.
  
"I love you," he says hoarsely as he covers her,
pressing the head of his erection between her legs.
"I don't want to hurt you."
  
He moves forward, and feels his body slide just
slightly into hers.  She murmurs that it is all
right, and he pushes again, shuddering in pleasure.
She opens her legs farther, putting her arms around
his neck and pressing her face against his shoulder.  
  
He rocks instinctively, each stroke taking him a
little deeper inside her.  The sensation is so tight,
so hot - like nothing else he's ever known.  He hears
her panting in his ear.  He thrusts again, she
stiffens and cries out, and he's inside her.  Not all
the way, but enough.  The feeling is so powerful 
thathe's afraid to move.  He is still, trembling, 
just as she is.
  
She looks up at him, her eyes full of wonder.  
  
Slowly, he pulls back and thrusts again, watching the
mixture of pain and pleasure on her face as her body
is filled with his.
  
"I love you. I'll always love you," he promises her.
"Only you."
      
She nods, drawing him down on top of her.  He moves
again, trying to be gentle, but the urge to thrust is
so strong.  She cries out at the last few strokes,
pressing her face against his shoulder as his orgasm
comes, sending electricity convulsing through his
body.
  
He lies on top of her, spent, with beads of sweat
dripping from his forehead. "Are you all right?" he
asks as he catches his breath.
  
She kisses his neck tenderly, and runs her fingers
through his hair, then across his face.  He wants her
to be pregnant. He wants to marry her, to have
children with her, to spend his life with her.
  
"That did hurt." He withdraws with a final shudder,
and presses up on his elbows. "Didn't it?"
  
Her face is flushed, and her hair is tousled.  She's
so beautiful.  So alive. "It's supposed to, Fox. It's
supposed to be like this."
  
"I know it is," he agrees, then kisses her.  
  
This is how it is supposed to be.
  
In the abandoned church that no one knows about, for
a stolen afternoon he lies beside her on the blanket
beneath the infinite blue sky, holding her close as
sleep comes. When he opens his eyes, the dream is
over, it is night, and she is gone.
  
She always is.
  
  *~*~*~*
            
End: Paracelsus, Prologue

  *~*~*~*

Begin: Paracelsus I

  *~*~*~*
  
My Dearest Wife,
  
I remain adrift in a world that is not my own. I am 
dead-reckoning when I have lost track of where I 
began. I am a wanderer, which sounds better than 
saying I am lost.

In each city, instead of searching randomly, I try to
think 'where I would be if I were a teenage boy.' 'At
home, doing as my father told me' is where I would 
be, so then I try to think where I would be if I was 
Samuel.  
  
I have taken to staking out the bakeries as they put 
out the apple turnovers, hoping the smell will lure 
him in. Often, I buy one to take with me in case he 
is hungry when I find him.  General Sherman destroyed 
most of the railroads in Georgia and the Carolinas, 
but I go to the train depot next, regardless. It 
seems like the proper place to wait and look 
expectant. I find a music hall and ask after him: 
might they have a handsome, unassuming, dark-haired, 
dark-eyed musical prodigy in their midst? I watch the 
children leaving the schoolyard in case he has had a 
change of heart and willingly opened a book. Then, I 
check the hospitals, then the orphanages, and then 
cemeteries. 
  
I wonder if I should even write that to you: that I
have looked for our Sam among the dead. I wonder if I
should tell you that I have begun to feel like Don
Quixote tilting at his windmill.  I am a remnant, and 
I need some truth I can tuck away inside my heart, 
some answer when I look up at the heavens and cry, 
'Why?' Why am I still here? Why didn't Death take me 
as it took so many others? I need not to feel so 
infinitely empty and alone.  Afraid. I need so badly 
to believe there are still happy endings somewhere in 
this ruined world.  I am not sure if that makes me an 
optimist or a fool.
  
I suppose I just need peace, Melly, and I will come
home when I find it. Until then, I will keep
searching.
  
With all my love,  
Mulder           
  
  *~*~*~*
  
The air was so humid that it bordered on being solid
rather than vapor. His shirt, fresh the previous
morning, clung to his skin, wet and limp.  Sweat
stung his eyes, and he felt the August sun glaring
down at him through the treetops, scorching the top
of his head through his wool cap.  Like yesterday and
the day before and the dozens of days before that
which had now blurred together, the long southern
afternoon refused to end. The sun's path across the
sky seemed to drag on infinitely, defying the
constraints of time and logic.  The world stopped
having rhyme or reason, end or beginning, and he felt
cut loose - adrift -  disconnected from where he'd
begun, yet without any end in sight. Too tired to
keep searching, yet unable to recall how to do
anything else. 
  
It was his second summer at the mercy of that
sweltering Georgia sun - first with General Sherman 
during the Atlanta campaign and now in the Low 
Country, which was the local name for the expanse of 
low-lying swamps and dense forests that began east of 
Savannah and spread north, through the inlets and 
islands the South Carolina coast. Throughout the 
fallen Confederacy, the rebellious cities were under 
tight military control, but in the country, the 
hungry, destitute people were lawless. It had been 
the same in the rolling farmland around Atlanta, in 
the mountains inland, in Charleston, and now along 
the coast. The old men, widows, and children narrowed
their eyes as he approached their porches in his
well-made blue uniform, atop a well-fed horse bearing
a government brand.  The southerners shrugged and
spat in answer to his questions, pretending ignorance
no matter how innocuous the question or honorable his
mission. Once he rode on, though, behind his back,
they hissed, 'Just go home, you damned Yankee.'
  
He always wanted to go back, dismount, and grab them
by their tattered shirtfronts and explain through
clenched teeth that all he'd ever wanted to do was
just go the hell home.
  
He never did, though.  He just kept riding.
  
Mulder sighed and gave Shadow a nudge with his heels
so the big horse ambled aimlessly a little faster.
Since he hadn't passed another soul in hours, he
unfastened the top button on his jacket, still not
getting much relief. Having saturated his shirt,
sweat now converged between his shoulder blades and
flowed down to the small of his back, soaking
through his blue uniform as well and making him itch
miserably.
  
The road had wound on for miles, twisting and looping
back on itself through the swamp, and seemingly going
nowhere. Spanish moss and determined vines gripped
the trees with their gnarled fingers, slowly sapping
their strength. Dragonflies buzzed past his head and
birds called to each other - herons, gulls, hawks -
warning of his approach, then warily watched him pass
from their perches in the treetops.  He was the
outsider - dangerously suspect and out of place.
  
Fox Mulder was a tall man, as lean and long-limbed as
thoroughbred racehorse.  His tanned face was an
eccentrically handsome blend of angles, with hazel
eyes and full, almost feminine lips he'd been teased
about as a boy. Underneath his cap, his hair was dark
brown and had developed a bit of curl in the
humidity. He'd shaved off his beard during the
Atlanta campaign, and then let his goatee grow back
only to shave it off again as the summer wore on.
Two days ago, he'd been clean-shaven, but now
stubble sprouted from his cheeks and itched along
with everything else.
  
He rode well, comfortable in the saddle and in his
uniform; he'd been a cavalry officer so long that
riding was almost more natural than walking.  An
educated, well-read man, he spoke well and in several
languages, but usually preferred to commit his
thoughts to paper. By trade, he ran a newspaper in
Washington DC, though most of his income came from
his family's money; by class he was a gentleman, if
that still mattered somewhere in the tattered,
battle-weary world.
  
As the shadows began to lengthen across the path,
Mulder rounded another turn in the road to find three
federal soldiers standing a little to close to a lone
woman. There were troops stationed in Savannah and
Charleston and at forts all along the coast, but
there was no reason for these scraggly fellows to be
out in the middle of nowhere. Bothering a woman who
didn't seem to want to be bothered.  A troublesome
minority of the Union army seemed to think they'd
fought a war so they could rape, pillage, and swindle
as they pleased afterward.  It wasn't enough to put
down the rebellious south and restore order; they
felt entitled to pick the bones clean afterward.
  
It seemed there were too many villains and not nearly
enough heroes these days.
  
"Leave her alone," he barked. "Let her be, soldier."
  
"We're paying our respects," the tallest man called,
not looking at Mulder approaching behind him. "Mind
your damn own business."
  
One soldier stepped aside, and Mulder could see the
pronounced roundness of the young woman's stomach.  
  
"The next time you're off duty, corporal, find a
woman in town and pay your respects to her," Mulder
said authoritatively. "For now, get back to your post
or I'll shoot you were you stand."
  
The soldiers turned, not happy at being ordered
around, but startled when they saw his officer's
uniform and insignia.
  
"Yes, sir, colonel," the ringleader said.  The tall
soldier nodded to the others, and they quickly
remounted their horses and, after hollowly polite
'good days' to the woman, disappeared into the
cypress trees. He doubted they had any intention of
rejoining their troop, but that wasn't his problem
anymore.
  
The woman exhaled as the sound of their horse's
hooves faded away. There were packages on the ground
at her feet - maybe flour, coffee, or tobacco - most
likely what the soldiers had wanted rather than sport
with her.
  
At least, that was what he was hoping.
  
"Are you all right, Ma'am?" Mulder asked, swinging
down from the saddle and eyeing her swollen stomach.
"Where is your husband?"
  
Aside from the fact that no lady should be out
without a male escort in these times, she was too far
gone to be walking anywhere in the sun and humidity
and relentless heat.  In the city, no lady would
appear in public when she was obviously with child,
but out in the swamps, there were few people left to
care.
  
"Yes, I am fine, thank you," she answered quickly,
tucking a few stray strands of curly auburn hair back
underneath her broad sunhat. His ear detected a soft
Irish accent: not fresh to American soil but still
gently lilting. When she glanced up, squinting at him
in the sun, he got a glimpse of fine features on a
small, pretty, heart-shaped face, with lips drawn
into a determined line.
  
For a few seconds, he stared at her, the back of his
neck prickling as if someone had stepped on his grave
or he was seeing a ghost.
  
"Ma'am..." he started to say, but didn't manage to
finish the sentence as his stomach flip-flopped
inexplicably.
  
He exhaled and swallowed, wondering what was wrong
with him. The heat, probably.
  
"Ma'am, may I help you with those?" he asked,
remembering his manners and gesturing to the parcels
she bent to pick up, missing them by several inches
as she tried to reach over her belly. "I will help
you with those," he decided when she didn't respond.
  
"I am fine," she repeated for his edification, as
though he might not have heard her the first time.
  
"I did not say you were not," he responded, surprised
at her lack of gratitude.  He stooped down, gathering
up heavy bags of coffee beans and white sugar she 
must have been hoarding. 
  
She reached for the sacks, but he moved back
slightly, thinking she did not need anything else to
carry besides that baby. "Thank you for your help,
sir," she said pointedly, offering her arms again.
  
"I'm not the enemy, Ma'am; the war is over.  I'm
not interested in your packages, but if you want, I
can carry them for you. Or put them on my horse.  You
shouldn't be out without an escort, wherever it is
you are going. Where are you going?"

"Town," she answered, watching warily as he began to
secure the bags on his saddle. 
  
"Which direction would town be?" He'd gotten turned 
around and all the burnt plantations in the Low 
Country had begun to look alike.
  
"Five miles north."
  
"You had planned to walk five miles carrying these?"
  
She folded her arms above her belly, as if annoyed
that he would question her.  The part of him
accustomed to obedient women toyed with just leaving
her and her parcels sitting beside the road, but the
bored, lonely part dismissed that idea.
  
"I would send a servant, but my husband's servants
went with the Yankee soldiers," she explained, her
rhythmic Irish accent rounding her consonants and
lilting the vowels. "I would drive in a buggy, but 
his horses went with the servants.  I would ask my
husband to go, but he has not come home from the war.
I would wait, but time is not going to wait on me
much longer," she explained as he finished attaching
her packages to his saddle. "Really, I do appreciate
your help, sir; I do not mean to be rude or
ungrateful, Colonel. Those men... I am just tired and
a little upset."
  
"Both are understandable. There was a river crossing
a few miles back. If that is where you are going,
would you allow me to accompany you?"
  
"I could not impose."
  
"But if I was going in that direction..." he offered.
  
"But you are not," she reminded him knowingly.
  
In answer, he took the horse's reins and led Shadow
in a tight half-circle so he now faced north, toward
the closest dock.
  
He gave her a half-grin, and she smiled back in tired
amusement.
  
"In that case - yes, Colonel, I would be grateful for
the escort," she decided.
  
When she smiled, the prickling at the back of his 
neck drained down his spine and created a curious
warmness in his belly.  Mulder blinked and wiped one
hand across his brow, clearing away the sweat and the
odd sensation.
  
"I-I would put you on Shadow and lead him," he said,
stumbling over his words. "But he can be skittish,
sometimes, and I would hate to risk you falling."
  
"It is all right.  I am fine.  I can walk."
  
"All right," he responded, and he began to lead his
horse by the reins, walking slowly to accommodate her
pace. She was small; he could have easily rested his
chin on top of her head. He did not, of course. "My 
name is Mulder, by the way.  Since we will be 
traveling companions for a bit."
  
"Oh, I am sorry, Colonel Mulder; I am Mrs.
Waterston." She offered her hand awkwardly, and he
glanced at his own, noticing it lacked a glove and
was none too clean as he shook hers. "Mrs. Dana
Waterston.  My husband is Dr. Waterston."
    
"It's Mr. Mulder, now.  I stopped being Colonel
Mulder months ago; the horse and the blue uniform are
only convenient federal remnants I have not taken the
time to address. Anyway, I am pleased to meet you,
Ma'am. I am sorry those soldiers were harassing you. 
They are supposed to keep order, not stir up
trouble."
  
She nodded, and he started walking again, thinking
their salutations were finished.  Instead of
following, she stopped, putting a hand on her belly,
a curious expression crossing her face. "I need a
second, please, Mr. Mulder."
  
Her second stretched to a minute, and then to a tense
eon as he waited, watching her and trying to figure
out a delicate way to say it. Delicacy and diplomacy
came as naturally as setting himself afire, so he
said bluntly, "Ma'am, you need to go home and rest.
It is too hot for you to be going anywhere in your
condition."
  
"I need things for the baby," she insisted, finally
drawing a deep breath and standing up straighter.
"The servants took everything from the house."
  
"Let me take you home, and then I'll go to town and
trade for whatever you want," he offered. "I am going
anyway, and I can ride there and back by nightfall."
  
"Or you could take my coffee beans and sugar and
disappear," she countered, putting her hands on the
small of her back as if it ached.
  
"Yes, I could.  But I won't." 
  
"How can I be sure?"
  
He considered a moment, then on impulse slipped his
wedding ring off his finger, offering it to her.
"Here. I do not want your coffee or sugar, Ma'am, but
you can be sure I will come back for that."
  
Clearly, the heat must be affecting his judgment.
Otherwise, he didn't know what could have possessed
him. He had a wallet full of greenbacks if he wanted
to offer her collateral as assurance he would return.
His wedding band hadn't left his finger in fifteen 
years; already his hand felt strangely light and bare 
without it. He wanted to retract the offer, but he
didn't.
  
"Many men would be happy to be free of such..." She
paused, searching for a word. "Tethers."  
  
"Many men would." The ring glinted in the afternoon
sun as he continued to hold it out between his thumb
and forefinger. "I am not one of those men," he said
simply. "You will have my life; all I will have is
your coffee beans."
  
She looked up, scanning his face for something, 
then,seeming to find it, lowered her eyes and held 
out her palm for the heavy gold band.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
Mulder wasn't sure of the propriety of entering a
deserted mansion. Obviously, no butler was going to
greet him, but it seemed rude to barge in. He pushed
the front door open, knocking loudly and calling for
her, his voice echoing in the empty foyer.  When she
didn't answer, he ventured deeper inside, passing
through what had once been a plantation house in all
its glory, but was now a battered shell. Discolored
squares of wallpaper marked where paintings had hung,
and the mahogany floor and furniture looked naked,
stripped of every object of value.  
  
The Negro servants hadn't known what to take as they
fled; candelabras and silver spoons couldn't be
traded for food if there was no food to trade them
for. With all the able-bodied men at war for four
years running and the ports closed to cargo ships
until last month, much of the south was quietly
starving. Vast fields of rice, cotton, and tobacco
were going to seed, occasionally interrupted by the
graves of a quarter-million men who had died trying
to defend their way of life. 
  
"Here," she finally called from the back of the
house, her voice sounding small and lost in the vast 
darkness of the kitchen. "I am here, sir."
  
"I did not intend to be gone so long.  I am sorry if
I worried you, Ma'am," Mulder apologized, setting the
packages on the kitchen table, fumbling in the
flickering candlelight. "You said the nearest boat
dock was five miles away, but the nearest place to
trade for anything at a reasonable price is Savannah.
I had thought I could be back yesterday."
  
"I was not worried, Mr. Mulder," she said quietly,
from the shadows.    
  
"You should be worried: living here, alone.  I would
not be happy if you were my wife," he scolded as he
untied the bundles. "There is no one for miles."
  
Picking up the only candle, he stepped closer to her
voice, and found her slouched in a wooden chair near
the cold fireplace, her arms cradling her belly.
"What if something would-"
  
He saw her jaw widen as her teeth clenched, eyes
closing and head tilting slightly back in pain.  
  
"Is it time, do you think?" 
  
She nodded, keeping her eyes closed and waiting for
the contraction to pass.   
       
"Is there a doctor or a midwife?" he asked, already
knowing the answer. "A neighbor?  I will get them.
Is there anyone, Ma'am?"
  
"No," she managed, exhaling slowly. "I will be fine."
  
"All right.  Is there anything I can do?"
  
"No.  I am grateful for all you have already, Mr-"
She stopped again, panting as beads of sweat appeared
on her forehead. 

"I, uh, um," Mulder said. "I will just wait then,
and, uh, make sure you really are fine. Outside. I
will wait outside." He was a seasoned hallway pacer,
skilled at imagining all the horrors happening on the
other side of the door until the doctor appeared.
  
"Do that, Mr. Mulder," she answered between
shallow breaths. "That would be very helpful."
  
He had a suspicion he was being made fun of, but he
wasn't sure, and she seemed focused on other things.
He assured himself she probably had a dozen children
somewhere and could manage this easily by herself,
regardless of whether or not she looked to be barely
out of her teens and scared out of her wits.
  
"All right, I will just, uh-" He started backing out
of the kitchen, afraid to look away, when she moaned,
her body convulsing. "Oh, Jesus Christ!" he cursed,
returning to her so he could hover helplessly. "I am
taking you to bed," he decided, glad to be of some
use. Helping her stand, Mulder asked urgently, "Where 
is your bedroom?"
  
"But I am a married woman. You are a married man."
  
"I only mean that you should lie-" he started to
explain before he realized she was making an off-
color joke. "Oh, you are funny, Ma'am. Very funny," 
he said sarcastically.
  
He helped her to an adjacent room that had probably
once belonged to the cook, then laid her down and
stood nervously at the end of the bed. "I will be
outside. Just call out if you need me," he whispered,
trying not to disturb her, and this time made it all
the way to the door before another contraction came
and she cried out.    
  
"There must be something I can do," he insisted,
looming over her again, dripping candle wax on the
old quilt. "Anything?"
  
When she didn't respond, he reached for her hand
anxiously, kneeling beside the rusty iron bed.  
  
"I am all right," she assured him as the pain passed,
closing her eyes so she could rest a few seconds.
  
"Do you want me to leave?"  
  
She shook her head no, murmured unintelligibly in
Gaelic, and then asked, "Do you have children, Mr.
Mulder?"
  
"I think, in this situation, just 'Mulder' would be
fine.  Yes, Melly and I have a son.  Samuel.  Sam."
  
"Tell me about Sam," she requested, "Just Mulder." 
  
"He's handsome.  Talented.  What do you want me to 
tell you, Ma'am?"
  
"Tell me about anything outside this room. Tell me
about your family, Mr. Mulder. How long since you
have seen them?"
  
"I saw Sam last fall with General Sherman.  I looked
up and discovered he'd run off and joined the Army."
  
"And your wife?" she asked, trying to keep him
talking.
  
"The last time I saw her? More days and nights than I
want to count," he said quietly, holding her damp
hand. "I was home on leave at Christmas.  Home is in
Washington, near The Capitol," he added, searching
for something to say. "It's the house with the
constantly broken window; my son and I play baseball
in the yard, and he keeps hitting the ball through
the front window by mistake. Baseball is not his 
talent, it seems, and he can break them faster than I 
can replace them."
  
She scooted farther up in bed, half-sitting, and
bracing herself against the headboard. She rested her
head against the pillow and took long, slow breaths.
  
"You are still all right?  Nothing is wrong?" Mulder
asked, keeping his eyes focused on her face rather
than anything that might be happening below her
waist. "Or do you know?" 
  
"My mother is a midwife. And my cat had kittens,
once," she murmured, managing a tired smile.    
  
He watched as the shadows washed over her face,
marveling at how she could find any comfort in his
presence. Both their medical expertise combined
barely constituted half a nurse, and it was not his
body this child was trying to come out of.  The only
birth he'd witnessed involved a colt, and that had
made him queasy.

"What can I do to help?"
  
"Please keep talking.  You have a nice voice."
  
A little embarrassed at her compliment, he blinked,
then recovered by choosing a new topic: "Melly and I
grew up together, and we married as soon as her
father allowed it. Sam came not long after; he was
Melly's sixteenth birthday gift. We talked about more
children, but I was away at school, and Melissa was
ill. And the war, of course.  There was a baby
coming, though, the last time I saw her."
  
"Your wife is going to have a baby?" 
  
He nodded without thinking, putting his arm around
her shoulders to help lift, since she seemed to want
to sit up farther. "I plan to be pacing my usual
route in the upstairs hallway while the doctor
delivers my daughter," he promised her, wondering
what possessed him to say that.
  
  *~*~*~*  
  
"Can you hear me, Ma'am?" Mulder asked tensely,
watching her face for any response. "Ma'am, it is
Mulder. Mrs. Waterston? Dana? Squeeze my hand if you
can hear me."
  
Her fingers finally pressed against his, and he
squeezed back, massaging her palm with his thumb.
  
"Thank God.  There you are," he said softly,
exhaling.  She opened her eyes, blinking in
confusion. "I was worried."
  
"Baby?" she asked, looking from side to side in the
tiny, shadowy room. The candle had died hours ago,
leaving Mulder to deliver, bathe, and swaddle the
newborn by moonlight, which might have been a partial
blessing in disguise.   
  
"Be still; you were bleeding, and I do not want it to
start again," Mulder hushed her. "You have a little
girl. Are you all right?"
  
She nodded, looking pale and woozy and uncertain what
had happened. Frankly, he was uncertain what had
happened except that there had been pushing and
screaming - some from him - and, underneath lots of
blood and slime and tears, suddenly a new human
being. It was as though God had overlooked the war-
ravaged nation, the endless fields of weeds and dead
soldiers, and Mulder's ineptness, and slipped a bit
of humanity between the cracks of civilization.   
  
"That has to be the most amazing, miraculous,
horrible thing I have ever seen.  Giving birth, I
mean, not your daughter. She is beautiful."
  
"Is she?" she murmured, tiredly turning her head to
see.  Mulder shifted the tiny bundle of towels in the
crook of his arm so she could see the child's face,
now cleaner and less red than it had been earlier.
  
Her hand left his, wanting the baby, so he laid the
bundle beside her, placing her arm around the child.
"She is perfect, Ma'am."   
  
"She is." She pushed away the towel, stroking the
infant's tiny hand, marveling at the miniature
fingernails. "Hello, little girl," she told the baby,
who pursed her lips in response.
  
As he watched her holding her newborn daughter, a
strange sensation came over him, trickled down his
backbone as it had on the road the previous day.  He
felt the odd urge to push her auburn hair back from
her face and kiss her forehead gently, if she was his
wife rather than a stranger and the child was theirs
instead of hers. It seemed second nature to sit
carefully on the bed beside her and lean close,
butterflies swarming in his stomach as he admired the
baby with her. The baby would nurse and then sleep;
he would lie beside Dana, proudly keeping watch as
she rested as well. Those impulses seemed almost
faded memories, something that had happened eons ago
and then been long forgotten.  
  
He did none of those things, of course.
  
"So many miracles in one small form.  It is amazing
what flesh, love, and God can create," he said
instead, watching her as the first flickers of dawn
appeared on the horizon. "Welcome to the world,
little one. Such as it is."
   
  *~*~*~*
  
He knew he wasn't one of those men who could set
women's hearts fluttering with his flowery
complements, but he wasn't a gangly, tongue-tied
adolescent, either. Mulder could usually manage to 
string a sentence together - sometimes fairly 
eloquently - to get his point across, and he was well 
aware of the differences between the male and the 
female of the species, so he was surprised at his 
sudden bashfulness around her.
  
Once the crisis of giving birth had passed, he felt
the immediate need to be anyplace else, like a groom
who has just spent his first night with the bride and
was afraid to face her the next morning.  What had
seemed perfectly acceptable in the darkness now made
his face feel hot and necessitated him sitting in a
chair across the room, staring intently at a spot on
the wall above the headboard. He was afraid to leave
her alone so soon, so he adopted a distant, overly
solicitous air, pretending he had no idea how that
baby had come into the world.         
         
Since Mulder was the self-appointed cook, they were
subsisting on whatever combination of flour, lard,
water, soda, and salt he could create.  He'd made
biscuits that were very nice, if one peeled the burnt
part off the bottom. She ate without complaint,
listened as he rambled on, eager to fill up the
silence, nodded occasionally, and fell asleep in the
middle of a story, which he didn't take personally.
She had said he had a nice voice, which was the
first compliment he'd received from a woman in a long
time.  Granted, it had been a married woman in labor,
but still...  Giving a man a license to talk about
himself was like milking a bull: do it once and make
a friend for life. 
  
"How did your son get in the Union Army at thirteen?"
she asked, finishing the not-black part of her
breakfast and brushing the crumbs off the bed sheets.
He had moved her and the baby to a more comfortable
room, and then left just long enough to clean up the
mess downstairs and fix something to eat.  
  
"By the end of the war, they took soldiers wherever
they could get them, and Sam was tall. He was a
good shot. He slipped away from his grandparents and
lied about his age. And his name, since I could not
find a Samuel William Mulder-" he hesitated, then
couldn't bring himself to say it. "I didn't know
whether to burst with pride or put him over my knee
when I saw him with General Sherman."
  
"He must have scared you and your wife to death."
  
"I don't think he had any idea what war was really
like, Mulder said, tilting his wooden chair back.
"The reality of it... He's such a gentle spirit.
He'll hunt and play ball to humor me, but his world -
his passion - is his music and art.  Like his mother.
Since he was small, if it has strings, he can play
it; if it will stand still, he can sketch it.  I
don't know how I ended up with a son like Sam, but
he's, he's amazing."
  
"You miss your Sam and Melly," she said, making a
statement rather than asking a question. "It is good
to see a man who adores his family."
  
"They are my life," he said easily, knowing that was
true. "My talented Samuel and my beautiful Melissa.
They see a beauty in the world that I cannot, and it
is a very empty place without them."
  
"Then go home, Mr. Mulder.  I am grateful to you, but
your wife needs you. Especially now. Emily and I will
be fine, and you have better things to do than play
nursemaid to me."    
  
He had been keeping his face arranged in a friendly,
polite expression, but turned to look out the window,
suddenly very far away. "My wife is not going to have
a baby.  I don't know why I said that," Mulder said.
"Wishful thinking, I suppose." He sat the chair down
on all four legs with a sharp thump, standing
quickly. "I am sorry I lied to you. I'll come back
and check on you in a little bit."
  
"Mr. Mulder-" she began, but he shook his head.
  
His boots tromped down the grand staircase, across
the foyer, and out to the broad porch. Sitting
heavily on the front steps, Mulder looked out at the
vast swamps, so dense they were still dark at mid-
morning, so hostile they could swallow a teenage boy
as thoughtlessly and completely as a frog swallows a
fly. He slouched forward, resting his elbows on
his knees and letting his head hang wearily, for the
first time beginning to admit defeat. It was not just
the southerners whose way of life had come to an end.
  
  *~*~*~*
   
"Is everything all right, Ma'am?" he asked, appearing
in the kitchen doorway still buttoning his shirt and
pulling his suspenders up and over his shoulders so
he was presentable. He and a hoot owl had been up
before dawn having a tense discussion over who could
sleep where in the barn's loft. Mulder, conceding
defeat, had gone to backyard pump to rinse off before
daylight, and been mid-scrub when he noticed the
smell of bacon frying.   
  
"Should you be up so soon?  I don't think you should
be up so soon, Ma'am," he decided, drawing on his
two-day-old knowledge of obstetrics. "Go back to bed;
I will do that, Mrs. Waterston. You need to rest."    
  
"I have rested.  Now I am fixing breakfast," she
answered casually, poking at the contents of the
frying pan with a fork and eliciting a mouth-watering
sizzle. "I cannot keep letting you wait on me, Mr.
Mulder. It is not right." 
  
He wrinkled his forehead for a few seconds before he
understood what she was getting at. "Oh, of course,
yes, but circumstances- Uh. I understand how bad it
looks for me to be here, but you just had a baby, for
pity's sake. I do not even sleep in the house." He
swallowed, feeling awkward. "I will take you to stay
with your parents, wherever they are," he said
decisively, "Or to one of the homes for widows and
orphans. If you feel well enough to travel, leave
your husband a message and he can come for you when
he returns. You cannot live here alone.  Your husband
will understand. I would understand if you were my
wife. You cannot endanger yourself or your daughter."
     
She stared at him for a few seconds, long enough to
be discomforting, and then, shaking her head in
wonder, began to laugh softly as she flipped another
slice of bacon.  
  
"What is it?" Mulder asked defensively, caught off
guard.  
  
"I am not a soldier you can order around as you
please, and, as you have already pointed out, I am
not your wife, either. Not all women whimper and hide
under the bed every time a shutter rattles or a
Yankee passes through, Mr. Mulder."
   
"I did not say they did," he said, floundering
through a novel situation. She might look like an
angel, but she had the temperament of a mule. The
dichotomy was challenging, but it had its charms.
But not until he'd had coffee. "I'm only trying to
help, Ma'am."
   
"I am only trying to politely say I cannot stomach
any more of your biscuits.  I had no intention of
debating propriety or women's suffrage before
breakfast.  Please, sit down and eat."
  
"Oh," he said, and exhaled.
  
"Do you want coffee, Mr. Mulder?" she asked, picking
up a cup from the shelf above the stove and setting
it in front of him. "Then, perhaps, we can debate."
  
He chuckled to himself and sat down, nodding "yes."
   
  *~*~*~*
  
End: Paracelsus I


Begin: Paracelsus II
   
  *~*~*~*
  
My Dear Melly, 
   
Perhaps idealism is the final luxury of youth, as my
father says - a romantic's way of refusing to see
life as it is: short, nasty, and brutish.  According
to Father, I am an idealist, among other distressing
things. I search for the best in this world, like the
Greek philosopher who carried an unlit lantern in his
quest for the truth. Unlike Diogenes in Athens,
sometimes I find it, but always were I least expect
it. In long afternoons of physical labor under the
sweltering southern sun; in newborn babies mewing and
steaming mugs of coffee at dawn; in lingering
twilights and cool breezes off the swamp and quiet
conversations about nothing of importance, to my
surprise, there is peace.
  
In my mind, I can see you wrinkling your pretty
forehead in bewilderment. You do not need to
understand my rambling, only that I have set down my
lantern for a moment so I will not drop it in
exhaustion. For a few heartbeats, I have a
comfortable life - or lie - and a hundred excuses not
to leave it. Normalcy, with its gentle routine and
placid smiles, is as seductive as any woman, and I
let it envelope me as if I belong.
   
Earlier, my friend saw a daguerreotype of you - the
one where you were irritated with me and look as
though there was ice water in your veins - and
commented on how beautiful you were. I opened my
knapsack and eagerly showed her the rest of my
photograph collection of you and Sam, and she said I
had a lovely family. I agreed, not knowing what else
to say. I had a lovely family, Melly, especially in
the photographs. She wrinkled her forehead at me,
just like you did, and I wish I could bring myself to
explain, because I think she might understand.      
  
I already know I won't mail this letter, but I'll
sign it anyway, with my love,
  
Mulder  
  
  *~*~*~*
   
He wasn't eloquent around women - never had been -
but usually he could stammer out something better
than, "Good day, Ma'am. I brought you cows, among
other things."
  
Yes, she was pleasant to look at; he wasn't blind.
Yes, he was lonely and they had briefly shared as
much romance and intimacy as an old slave's bed,
moonlight, and a placenta could offer. Just because
she was willing to listen to his Sam stories and give
him a shoulder to cry on didn't mean she felt
anything more than gratitude and friendship toward
him, just as he felt toward her. She had her bed and
baby - and husband - and he had his barn and pictures
of Melly, and never the twain would, or should, meet.   
  
"Those are not my cows, Mr. Mulder," Dana told him,
carrying a basket of fresh eggs as she emerged from
the chicken coop. "I thought you were going to
Savannah. Have you returned or have you been
wandering the swamps, lost, since Tuesday morning?"
  
"I did go to Savannah. Then, as I was returning to
continue my search for Samuel, I found these cows
near the river. They are not branded. Do you know who
owns them?" he asked, one hand on each of the rope
halters he had fashioned. When she nodded "no," he
announced, "Then, until the cows say otherwise they
are yours. I thought they would be good: for the
baby."
  
"I do not know that she likes cows, Mr. Mulder."  
  
"For milk," he added, as though she might really
think he had brought them to be pets. "For Emily."
  
She crossed her arms over her breasts, and he cleared
his throat, finding something else to look at. That
was an underhanded trick: her being a woman on
purpose just to distract him.   
   
"Thank you, but that cow does not have any milk, Mr.
Mulder. She will not until she has a calf.  And your
other new friend-" She gestured to the big creature
contentedly chewing on his sleeve, "Is a bull."
  
"I know that," Mulder said defensively, jerking his
wet sleeve away. "They do seem fond of each other,
though. In time, a calf - and milk - should be
forthcoming."
  
"I apologize for my ignorance, but I come from a
family of sea merchants.  Please tell me, Mr. Mulder:
how does one tell if cows are fond of each other?"
  
His first impulse was to respond saucily, "Ma'am, I
can't say in polite company," but he restrained
himself. Instead, he bit the left side of his tongue
between his teeth, knowing there was a 'why buy the
cow when you can get the milk for free' pun in this
and afraid it would slip out if he wasn't careful.  
  
"All right. You can put them inside your posts," Dana
decided, leaning on one he had already set. He'd
found various repair projects to keep himself
occupied as she recovered, and rebuilding the corral
had seemed like a fine, time-consuming idea.
Unfortunately, he'd only gotten as far as setting
the fence posts; it still lacked any actual
enclosure. "Just tell them where the rails should go.  
I am sure they will understand. From what I have 
observed, cows are bright, obedient creatures." 
  
"You are a very difficult woman, Ma'am.  Do you know
that?" he said. "I did bring you cows. And coffee
beans."
  
"Did you really think I desperately needed cattle, or
did you just need an excuse to come back to check on
me? I promise my daughter and I can breathe without
your supervision for a few days."
  
"I noticed the cows wandering, realized I was near
your place, and I thought you could use them. And you
can't have cows without a corral. And I do not like
going off and leaving my fence half-done," he said,
using a tone that he'd always thought sounded like he
meant business.
  
"I thought that was the case," Dana answered, somehow
managing not to collapse into a puddle of pliant
womanhood.
  
"Are you telling me you want me to go? I will finish
my corral and then go," Mulder said firmly, crossing
his arms in imitation of her posture and hoping he
didn't look like a child threatening a tantrum.
  
"I did not invite you to stay in the first place and
I am not telling you to leave now. You just come and
go like the tides. I could stand on the shore and
yell all I liked, but the ocean would still ebb and
flow as it pleases. I might as well save my breath."
  
"It doesn't seem like you save your breath," he
mumbled just low enough for her not to hear.
  
She surveyed him a moment, then shifted her basket of
eggs to her other arm. "I am glad you returned, Mr.
Mulder," she said more warmly, her Irish accent
lilting prettily. "I was not certain you would.
Where is your horse?"
  
"Shadow's tied near the first river crossing."
  
"With the coffee beans in your saddle bags?" she
asked.
  
"And some white sugar I happened across," he added. 
  
She considered another moment before she said, "Tie
the cows up, then come inside and eat before you go
back to get your saddlebags.  And your horse."
  
"You would have preferred I brought the coffee first
and gone back for the cows?" he said, teasing her.
  
"I would, but I suppose I will take you as you come."
  
He grinned at her, wiped the cow snot off the back of
his hand, and followed her inside the house.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
He finished his letter, folded it, and tucked it
safely inside his knapsack before adding just enough
kindling to the fire in the stove to keep it burning.
As August ebbed away, the days were still stifling,
and the nights only slightly less so. The windows
were open, so for the moment the breeze from the
coast cooled the house enough that it was bearable.
Mulder sat on one wooden chair and propped his black
boots up on another, watching the little flames dance
behind the cast iron grate. As he waited for Dana to
put the baby to bed and return downstairs, he looked
around the kitchen, idly taking stock.
  
The wallpaper behind the stovepipe was stained and
peeling, and the stove itself could use a good
polishing. The kitchen window and floor were scrubbed
clean, but the kindling box was almost empty; he'd
need to chop more firewood before he left for
Savannah again. Dana had planted a small garden in
the spring that was keeping her in vegetables, for
the time being. The plantation was so isolated that
the army hadn't raided it for supplies, so there were
still a few hams in the smokehouse and chickens in
the coup. There was cornmeal and some flour, but the
supplies were dwindling.
  
Stray pigs and steers roamed the swamps, but she
lacked the strength and probably the skill to butcher
one. There was plenty of wild game if she'd known how
to hunt. The steams were full of fish. Theoretically,
she could make lye soap and tallow candles and other
necessities, but that was time-consuming and hard,
dirty work. Eventually, she would run out of old
sheets and blankets to cut up for clothing for her
and the child. The barn was ancient, and already the
main house was falling into disrepair. He'd patched
the roofs, but there were already more tell-tale
brown stains on the upstairs plaster ceilings in the
house. Outside, the front steps of the plantation
house bowed, the paint peeled, and weeds sprouted in
the yard where the lawn should have been.  
  
He had entertained thoughts of returning to every so
often to replenish her pantry and help with repairs,
but it must have taken dozens of slaves to run the
plantation. He might be able to keep her supplied
with food and firewood, but in truth there was little
one man could do to stop the advancing decay.
  
He heard Dana making her way down the stairs, and he
stood as she entered the kitchen, carrying a basket
of soiled diapers on her hip and looking tired.
  
"She is asleep?" he asked.
  
She nodded. "Yes.  Finally."
  
"Are you wanting to wash those now, Ma'am? Would you
like me to carry in some water?" he asked.
  
"Thank you, but they can wait," she replied. "I am
sure there will be more by tomorrow morning."
  
"I am sure." He gave her a slight grin as he took the
basket from her and set it aside. "It never ends,
does it?"
  
She looked up at him quizzically as she rubbed the
small of her back.
  
"The work around here."
  
Dana straightened her back and rolled her shoulders,
then squared them. "No, it does not seem to.  But 
it does pause for a moment," she replied, then 
invited, "I think I will sit outside for a bit. Will 
you join me, Mr. Mulder?"
  
He nodded that he would, and followed her through the
house and to the broad front porch. The rockers on
the porch had been sacrificed for firewood at some
point, so she sat on the steps. He put his knapsack
aside and sat on the step above her, a decent
distance away. In the distance, the sky was mottled
with violet and orange clouds as the sun sank down.
Vines crept up the pillars and moss grew over the
stones around the empty flowerbeds, slowly taking
back the big house.  
  
"You finished your corral," she observed, seeing it
beside the barn, railings and all.  The two cows were
penned inside it, chewing their cud contentedly.
  
"I have finished your corral," he corrected. "I
covered the window upstairs with paper; I will get
more glass the next time I am in town. I saw the
kindling box was getting low, but it was getting
dark; I will have to see to that tomorrow."
  
"Thank you. I am grateful for all you do, Mr. 
Mulder."
  
"I am glad to be of some service, Ma'am," he answered
politely. "I wish I could do more."
  
"I wish I could repay you. If you will permit me, I
will speak to my husband about compensating you -
when he returns, of course."
  
He didn't respond immediately as he tried to think of
a tactful way to say that, firstly, he wasn't looking
for payment, and secondly, after so many months, he
doubted her husband would ever return home.
  
She turned, looking up at him quizzically.
  
"It is kind of you to offer, but I would not permit
you," he said finally, then added with mock
seriousness. "Charity is a virtue and physical labor
cleanses the soul; please do not tempt me from the
path of righteous purification."
  
Her blue eyes twinkled. "Mr. Mulder, I know there is
an English word for so much nonsense in one sentence,
and I wish I could remember it right now."
  
He grinned at her impishly, then supplied: 
"Malarkey.Hooey. Hog-wash."
  
"I think my brothers used a different word. They were
sailors."
  
"I'm sorry; I was only in the cavalry, Ma'am.  We
weren't as colorful."
  
She laughed.
  
The chickens clucked to each other in the hen house
as they settled in to roost. Somewhere in the shadows
of the empty slave quarters, a bullfrog sang. The
step creaked as he shifted.
  
"There is a way you could repay me, Mrs. Waterston."
  
There was the tiniest hesitation before she asked
lightly, "How is that, Mr. Mulder?"
  
"Ease my mind. Allow me to take you and your daughter
to Savannah, and to find a safe place for you to
board until your husband can come for you.  Ma'am,
you cannot continue to stay here alone," he said
earnestly. "You must know that. The swamps are full
of deserters and criminals, and you are defenseless.
Sooner or later, someone will stumble onto you. Even
if, by providence, you remain undiscovered, you
cannot manage this place alone. Not and care for your
daughter as well."
  
"But I am not alone. I have my sarcastic friend Mr.
Mulder, who has appointed himself my intermittent
champion, midwife, carpenter, and cattle wrangler,"
she replied, looking back at him with a smile.  
  
His expression was serious, and her smile faded. She
turned away, looking out at the darkening swamp.
  
"I do know, Mr. Mulder. I have been thinking about
that since you left. I did not realize how much work
there was in caring for a child, or how much you were
helping me until you were gone. As you say, it never
ends. I do understand your concern, but, regardless,
my husband told me to remain here."
  
"Ma'am, I understand you want to follow his wishes,
but I cannot believe he would want you putting
yourself and your daughter in harms way. If you were
my wife, I would have expected you to go to Savannah
as soon as you learned you were expecting," he said.
"Your responsibilities to your husband include your
responsibility for the safety of his child, do they
not?" he asked sternly.
  
She continued to study the horizon and didn't 
respond.
  
He noticed his jaws aching, so he unclenched his
molars and exhaled slowly.
  
"I am sorry. I was impertinent. You are not my wife
and Emily is not my child. It is not my business 
and, of course, you are free to do as you like. I 
only wanted to express my- my concern. Again."
  
She still didn't speak, and he shifted uncomfortably,
making the warped step groan.
  
"But I am not free to do as I like, Mr. Mulder," she
said finally. "Am I?"
  
"I don't understand."
  
"After so long with no word, I know it is unlikely my
husband will ever return. I know how vulnerable I am
here. But, Mr. Mulder, I also know that in America,
once I leave this place, there are rules for women in
society. I have no family, no resources, nowhere to
go, and a respectable woman cannot make her way
alone. There must be a man to speak for her, however
superficially. I understand those rules, but... But
for now, I would rather remain here."
  
"You mean that if your husband is dead, you do not
relish marrying again," he said when she didn't. "But
yet you know, as a young woman and a mother, with no
other prospects, you cannot be alone."
  
In answer, she adjusted her faded skirt, folding 
it over so a patched place didn't show.
  
"So you hide out here in the swamps?"
  
"And you return to hide with me," she responded.
"Intermittently."
  
"Intermittently," he agreed, then studied on her
profile a while.

"I do not mean to, to, to cast aspersions against Dr.
Waterston," she added, seeming uncomfortable. "Or
against the sanctity of marriage or a husband's right
to have dominion over his wife."
  
"I would never think that was the case, Ma'am," he
responded politely. "You are correct, though: society
has rules, and you have your daughter's future to
consider."
  
"Yes."  

Her posture remained tense, and she stared at the
horizon, avoiding eye contact with him.
  
"I am not judging you, Ma'am - only trying to think
of something that might be helpful."
  
Her profile nodded slightly.
  
"Men follow a leader who is worth following. My
father taught me that. A worthy commander: his
soldiers will defend him until their dying breath. If
he is not worthy, though - if he is merely a noisy
fool or a bully or another man's puppet - no oath can
hold their allegiance. Yes, I know you are not a
soldier," he said as she opened her mouth to remind
him of that fact. "I only mean this: perhaps it is
not the following, but the man you follow."
  
"Perhaps," she agreed carefully.
  
"The woman is the weaker vessel, yes, but some are
weaker than others. I expect to guide my wife, but
she needs guidance. I would think being married to
you would be like driving a stubborn team of oxen: a
man must watch the direction they choose carefully,
then yell it out in a loud, authoritative voice to
give the appearance he is in charge."
  
She laughed slightly, and he saw her shoulders rise
and fall as she exhaled and relaxed. "You are a smart
man, Mr. Mulder."
  
"I'm a man who tries to pick his battles carefully,"
he responded saucily. "A husband who knows on which
side his bread is buttered."
  
She paused, still amused but furrowing her brow
uncertainly.
  
"It's an American saying," he explained. "An idiom.
It means I know what my priorities are: which of two
things is the most enticing. In this instance, it
means I would rather have a woman's respect than her
perfect obedience. In my experience, one follows the
other; it is that way with soldiers as well."
  
"On which side my bread is buttered," she repeated,
as if committing the saying to memory.
  
"There's also knowing 'which end is up' and 'where I 
hang my hat' and 'where I park by boots' and many, 
many more American idioms that aren't fit for polite 
company."
  
She laughed again.
  
He leaned back, propping his elbows on the step above
and crossing his ankles.  The lightening bugs flashed
at the edge of the yard, signaling each other. Above
the trees, there was still a broad stroke of violet
on the horizon, but the first stars had appeared.
  
"I know an American phrase, Mr. Mulder. You coming
all the way out here again to bring me coffee beans,
and spending a pretty evening speaking with me: if
there were neighbors, they would gossip that we were
'courting.' Is that correct?"
  
His posture didn't change except that he turned his
head away, looking at the shadowy trees. 
  
"Oh, it is not correct, is it?" she said regretfully,
when he didn't answer. "I am sorry. Is, is it vulgar?
It's something else my brothers said. I thought it
meant a man and a woman spending time together; does
it mean, does it mean they are lovers?"
  
"No. No, the phrase is not vulgar." He sat up,
reaching for his knapsack. "Your usage is correct."
  
"But my usage is wrong in this instance, yes?"
  
"I wouldn't know about courting, Ma'am," he responded
coolly, knowing he was being an ass but unable to
stop himself. "As I said, I married very young, and I
remained married. Like you, I know something of how
societal constraints dictate our lives."
  
She gathered her skirt, preparing to stand as well.
"Mr. Mulder, I am sorry.  I did not mean to suggest
your intentions were dishonorable. I have said
something wrong, but I am not sure what."
  
He looked down at the steps, embarrassed. "And I have
said far more than I should have."
  
Seeming flustered and upset with herself, she said,
"Mr. Mulder, I know you are devoted to your wife. I
understand married people do not 'court,' if that is
even the right word. I only meant to make a joke:
what the neighbors might say if they saw us... Saw us
enjoying each other's company."
  
He stood, slinging his pack over one shoulder and
descending a few steps. "I'll bid you goodnight,
then, Ma'am. Your reputation with the neighbors and
all."
  
She stood, and, since she was now on the step above
him, she was eye-level with him. "There are no
neighbors, Mr. Mulder. Not for miles."
  
"Even more reason. Goodnight, Mrs. Waterston," he
said softly. "I'll see you in the morning."
  
"Goodnight, Mr. Mulder," she responded just as
softly, and then he turned away from her and toward
the old barn.
  
  *~*~*~*
   
"Why did you not wake me?" Dana asked, each word
draped in velvet by her Irish accent, then yawned,
stretching sleepily. He stood briefly as she smoothed
her skirt under her hips and then over her knees
before she sat on the porch steps. The air had
changed, electrified. A storm was approaching, and
she had brought a shawl with her against the chill.
Dana tried several times to drape it around her
shoulders, but it twisted and wouldn't cooperate, so
she stared at it in sleepy bewilderment.
 
Mulder sat down again and leaned back against a
peeling white column as he smiled at her drowsy
disarray. "Emily's still sleeping; she's no trouble,"
he explained, gesturing to the tiny form in the
homemade cradle beside him. "I didn't want to disturb
you unless I had to.  You-"   
He stopped short, leaving off the words 'needed to 
sleep.' Dana wasn't a woman who welcomed being told 
what she needed to do, unlike Melly, who had taken 
his lightest utterances as Gospel.  If he'd said the 
sky was falling, Melissa would have agreed.  
  
An hour ago, he'd discovered Dana asleep on the sofa,
a pillowcase she'd been mending crumpled on her lap
and the baby asleep in a blanket at her feet. "You
were resting," he said finally.
   
"Where did you find the cradle?" she asked, putting
her shawl over the baby against the breeze starting
to murmur through the swamps.
  
"I'd thought I would make her one, but this was in
the slaves' quarters. I scrubbed it and let it dry in
the sun," he added, not sure how she would feel about
having her baby sleeping in a Negro child's cradle.
"It is simple, but she seems to like it. If she was
my daughter, I'm sure there would be pink satin
bunting and gilded carving, just so I could say she
had the best. I am foolish like that."
  
"Yes, if she were your daughter, I am sure there
would be: pink satin and gilded inscriptions and
fireworks to announce her arrival." Dana looked past
him, watching the ominous clouds rolling in from the
sea, toppling over each other in their hurry to reach
the shoreline. "You have a son."
  
"It would not matter if I did not," he responded
truthfully. "Son or daughter: I would welcome any
child my wife gave me, and I would thank God for her
and the baby's safe delivery."  

"Again, I am not your wife, Mr. Mulder," she said
softly.
  
It was the first time she'd said it directly, but
he'd sensed her husband wasn't going to be pleased to
find a daughter instead of a son when he returned, in
the unlikely event he ever returned. Every man wanted
a boy, but it wasn't reasonable to demand one, as if
the woman had any control over the sex of the child.
Any husband who actually chastised his wife for
having a girl was a fool, at least in Mulder's
reckoning.                
  
"Ma'am, I did not mean... Your child is just as
content in her this bed, covered with your shawl, as
she would be in the fanciest cradle money could buy.
She is cherished, shielded from all the evil in the
world, and that is more precious than gold. Her
mother loves her, protects her. If a child has that,
it's foolish to give it more just for show.  And no
gilt and satin can equal a mother's love. That is
what I meant. I lavished poor Samuel with everything
but silk diapers and pet elephants until he was old
enough to fight back, and I'm sure I would have done
the same if my daughter had been born."

He closed his mouth, once again having said more 
than he intended, and found Dana watching him with 
inquisitive blue eyes.  
  
Mulder knew she wondered about the often moody
stranger who frequently took up residence in her
barn. Dana had been out of bed two days after Emily
came and back to her chores in less than a week, and
yet August had blended into September and hedged at
October, and Mulder still hadn't ventured very far
away. He chopped firewood, hunted, fished, mended
fences, helped with the baby, and fixed the hole in
the roof of the barn, much to the owl's dismay.
There had been several trips to send telegrams home
and continue his search for Sam, but he always found
an excuse to return to the Low Country to check on
her. As she said, she let him come and go as
mysteriously as the tides, as though he was something
she accepted rather than tried to control.   
  
"Melly became ill after Sam came," he finally said,
his words barely a whisper. "I told you that. 
Evenwith the best doctors, it was a long time before 
she was well. At least, I thought she was well, but 
then, with this last baby, it came back again even 
worse than before."
    
She blinked and he looked away, clearing his throat
and fiddling with his wedding band.    
  
"There's a storm coming," he observed, squinting at
the black sky as the winds began to pick up. "A bad
one. You're shivering. Take the baby inside before
the rain starts. I'll carry in some firewood and 
water, and close the shutters."
  
"Mr. Mulder..."
  
"Yes, she is dead," he said. "She died last summer,
and the baby died with her."
  
She tilted her head, puzzled. "But you write to her;
I see you write to her all the time."
  
"Just because I write letters doesn't mean anyone
will ever read them."
  
"I am sorry," she said after a pause, putting her
hand on his forearm, then sliding it down until their
fingers intertwined.
  
"Now you think I'm insane," he mumbled miserably.
  
"No. The war claimed both my brothers and my father
with a single torpedo. All three were on the USS
Tecumseh when it sank in Mobile Bay, and for months I
was certain there had to be some mistake. I was sure
God would not do that to my family. No, Mr. Mulder, I
do not think you are insane," she said gently. "Do
you know of Samhain?"
  
He shook his head from side to side.
  
"On Samhain, at summer's end, some people still
believe the fairy gates open for the night, and the
dead can roam between this world and the next. 
InIreland, we light candles so our loved ones can 
find their way home. I think that is all you are 
doing, Mr. Mulder: summer is ending and you are 
holding a candle in the darkness for lost souls. 
Death does not stop love; it only changes its form, 
and you loved your wife and daughter very much, just 
as I loved my family."
   
She squeezed, then released his hand, picking up the
baby as she began to wake and disappearing into the
house.
  
  *~*~*~*
   
He didn't even have his house key, Mulder had
realized as he stepped from evening train onto the
platform. His key was back in Georgia along with
everything but his wallet, his revolver, and the blue
uniform on his back. When the telegram had arrived,
he'd gone straight from the officers' tent to the
train station and then straight to Washington. If his
commanding officer had refused his request for
emergency furlough, Mulder would have shot him and
told the entire Federal Army where they could shove
their damn war.
  
"Mother ill stop come home now stop," Samuel had
telegraphed, and Mulder had had two days on a series
of excruciatingly slow trains to imagine all the
words that had been left out.
  
Spotting the carriage approaching through the crowd,
Mulder looked twice at the young man at the reins,
unaccustomed to seeing a teenager. According to his
internal clock, Samuel should be about eight or nine,
and yet the calendar insisted he'd just turned
thirteen.
  
"The train was late," Mulder said, stating the
obvious as he climbed in. "I thought it would never
get here. I was ready to jump off and run the last
ten miles."
  
"The station master said a freight train derailed
near Alexandria," Sam responded.
  
As soon as Mulder's backside met the padded seat, Sam
clucked to the horses, nervously forgoing any formal
greeting.
  
"Thank you for waiting," Mulder said, not sure what
else to say. "I came as quickly as I could."
  
The road in front of the depot was crowded with
buggies and light gigs, and Sam chewed his lower lip
as he waited for a slow-moving wagon to pass. After
that, he had to stop short to avoid for a group of
matrons paying more attention to their gossip than
the buggies. After that, there was no need to ask how
Melly was; Sam keeping the horses at a racing trot
through the congested streets and the tired purple
shadows under his eyes was answer enough.
  
"I didn't know what to do," Sam said eventually, not
looking away from his driving. "The doctor came, but
she won't let him near her. Poppy can't come to work
right now. I didn't want to send for Grandfather; I,
I was afraid he'd send her away. Maybe that's what
she needs, but-"
  
"No, you did the right thing. I promised she wouldn't
go back there. Why isn't Poppy at the house?" Mulder
asked. "Has her time come already?"
  
Sam nodded slightly, hesitant about acknowledging it,
even to his father. Their long-time housekeeper - who
was Sam's former nursemaid - was unmarried and, as of
late, quite pregnant. Such a thing was grounds for
her dismissal, but there was a war on. Poppy was
family, more or less. And Melly was expecting as
well. It was a sticky situation Mulder needed to
rectify somehow, but had been so far successfully 
avoiding.
  
"Poppy didn't happen to find a husband, did she?"
  
"No sir," Sam answered as he drove.
  
"I'm not going to send her away, Sammy. Not Poppy nor
her child. I'm not quite sure what I'm going to tell
Grandfather when he hears of this, but I'm not
sending Poppy away. We need her, especially now."
  
Sam let the horses slow a bit and tilted his head as
though his neck ached.
  
"You're tired, Sammy," Mulder said, again observing
the obvious.
  
"Yes sir," Sam answered, and didn't elaborate. He
took another deep breath, still upset but seeming
calmed a bit by his father's presence.  
  
Mulder laid his arm along the back of the seat, his
hand resting on Sam's shoulder. "You did the right
thing," he said again. "I'm proud of you. And,
despite the circumstances, I'm so glad to see you.
My God, you're so grown up. You've grown a foot
since Christmas.  You must be almost as tall as I 
am."
  
"Poppy says I look like a string bean and eat like a
draft horse."
  
Despite his exhaustion, Mulder snickered, and got 
a hesitant smile from Sam.
  
"Next time she says that, you tell her that you also
draw like Michelangelo and play like Mozart.  She
won't know who either of those men are, so she won't
be able to say a thing."
  
His son nodded, liking that. He glanced sideways,
noting his father's full beard, and commented, "You
look like a grizzly bear, Father."
  
"You look like the war's caused a scissor shortage.
When was the last time you had a haircut, son?"
  
Sam flicked Mulder's beard and Mulder swatted gently
at the back Sam's black hair, which was past his
collar.
  
"Try not to grow up until the war's over, all right?"
  
Sam nodded that he would try his best.
  
"It seems like I was home a few weeks ago instead of
months. Melly must be..." Logically, she must be big
by now, but he still had a hard time imagining it.
"Is she, Sam?" he asked awkwardly.
  
Sam nodded again and said, "I sketched her yesterday.
I know I shouldn't right now, but I don't think she
noticed me. I thought... I didn't know how long it
would be before you could come, and if... I thought
you would want the drawing," he finished.
  
"Thank you. Yes, I do want it. But nothing's going
to happen, Sam. Everything is going to be fine. Your
mother's going to be fine."
  
Sam considered a moment and asked, "How long will it
be, do you think, until she notices me?"
  
"It's hard to say, Sammy. Maybe a few days. Maybe
longer. Maybe a long time."
  
"But she's going to have a baby soon."
  
"I know that, Sammy," Mulder said softly, and they
passed the next several blocks in silence.
  
"How is the campaign?" Samuel asked, looking for
something else to talk about. His father owned the
Washington Evening Star and the boy spent his days
sketching amidst reporters and newspaper presses; Sam
already knew how Sherman's campaign was going.
  
"We have Atlanta under siege; it should fall in a
matter of months. Once we take Atlanta, we've cut the
Confederacy in two, destroyed their supply lines, and
there's no place else for them to run.  I should be
home for your and Melly's birthday," he promised.
"I won't miss it again."
  
Next year Sam would be fourteen and Mulder would be
thirty, almost thirty-one. At an age when other men
were just considering taking wives, Mulder had been
married for almost half his lifetime. He'd been
sixteen when Sam came, so they'd grown up together,
just the two of them, with Mulder floundering along
as best as he could. Melly had been there, of course,
but also, in her Melly way, often not there.
  
"Father?" Sam said uncertainly, stopping the buggy in
the circular drive in front of a brick mansion. "Will
she really be all right?"
  
"I'll see to her," Mulder responded, one foot already
on the ground. "It will be fine. You did a good job,
Sammy. You did the right thing." 
  
His son nodded, barely moving his head, and waited. 
Mulder was the father, so he was supposed to say 
something that would be of great moral comfort.
Some pearl of wisdom for the ages.
  
"Go rub the horses down. You've been pushing them
hard and it's hot. They could catch a chill."
  
There was another nod, and the buggy rolled away,
swaying toward the carriage house and stable.
  
Meeting him at the front door and taking his cap,
Melly's nervous young maid whispered, "She's
upstairs, sir."  
  
People always whispered when Melly was ill, as though
that was going to help. The servants should have
known better by now, but everyone had gone home for
the night except Melly's ladies' maid, who was seldom
in charge of anything more important than hairpins.
She waited at the bottom of the front staircase as he
hurried up, twisting her hands in her apron and
watching him expectantly.  Some days he felt much too
young to have so many people look to him with that
trusting, Mulder-will-take-care-of-it expression.
  
"Honey?" he said softly, pushing open the door of
their bedroom a moment later. The lamp wasn't lit and
the sun was going down, so the room was a contrast of
the fiery red sunset and the encroaching shadows.
"Melissa? Melly? Where are you, honey?"
  
There was a frightened whimper, and he saw her toes
peeking out from the space between the dresser and
the bed. The toes led to bare feet and shapely bare
calves, and her arms were wrapped around her knees,
pulling them as close as possible to her chest.
Except for her hair, which covered her back and
veiled her face with black mist, she was nude.  She
huddled against the wall as though she could
disappear into it, terrified.
  
"What are you doing down there, honey?" he asked
gently, leaning against the foot of their bed.
  
She shook her head frantically, sending her hair
flying. "Shush; he'll come back," she whispered,
childlike. "Be quiet. Fox's gone and he'll come
back." 
  
"He won't come back, Melly. Your father's dead. He's
been dead for years."
  
"No. No, no, no, no," she repeated mechanically,
rocking back and forth. "He'll come back."
  
"Do you know who I am? Look up at me."
  
"Fox?" Melly guessed in a tiny voice.  
  
"That's right; it's Fox. I'm not going to let him
hurt you. Come on out from there. Right now, Melly.
I don't like it, and you're scaring Samuel."
  
She stared up at him with huge, frightened eyes, her
chin quivering. She nodded 'no' again and huddled
even tighter. "Go 'way. He's bigger than you are."    
  
"I'm not going to let him hurt you. Trust me, Melly."
  
Mulder offered his hand, but didn't make any move
toward her. He could grab her and wrestle her out,
but that only ended up making things worse; he'd
learned that a few weeks after Sam was born. After a
minute, she reached for his hand, grasped it like a
lifeline, and let him help her to her feet.
  
As much as he would have liked to look at her,
especially now, putting on a nightgown or chemise
often helped calm Melissa. It was as though clothing
was armor and she could never have enough.
  
"That's my good girl. We'll get you a bath, let you
get some rest, and you'll feel better," he assured
her, slipping her arms into her dressing gown and
tying the sash high to accommodate her belly. "Look
at this," he said wondrously, running his hand over 
the swell. "What do we have here? What have you been 
up to while I've been off preserving the Union?"  
  
Melly had been leaning her forehead against his
shoulder, but looked down at his fingers drifting
over the silk fabric. She covered his hand with hers
for a few seconds, then backed away. 
  
"What's wrong?" he asked.
  
"No. No, no," she started again, looking through him.
  
"What, honey? 'No,' what?" 
  
She stroked her belly, staring at it as though it
hadn't spent seven months in the making and had just
appeared. Then she started to rub harder, like the
pregnancy was a wrinkle she could smooth away, and
then harder and harder until she was kneading so
roughly it frighten him.
  
"Whoa; easy," he cautioned her, stopping her hands.
"What's wrong? Try to tell me. Talk to me, Melly."  
"He did this. He did this. He did this. Get it out.
Get it out, Fox. And don't tell. It's bad. Bad, bad,
bad, bad."
  
"Shush," he murmured. "No, he didn't do this. Calm
down and try to remember. We did this, Melly. Not
your father. Your father is dead. He's been dead a
long, long time. This is our baby; I was home for
Christmas, remember? I was wounded. We talked about a
little girl and now we're going to have one; you
wrote you were certain it was a girl. We did this. 
This is our bed, in our house. This is our baby - our 
baby girl. You wanted this; you were so happy when 
you wrote to me. Do you remember at all? Try to be my 
big girl and remember. I need my big girl back."
  
With his fingers still loosely around her wrist, she
lowered her hand back to her belly, rubbing at it
like a stain on the rug. She shook her head, her face
crinkling to cry again.      
  
"Then just trust me. We did this. Don't hurt the
baby. I want you to take good care of the baby."   
  
"What did he put inside me?" she sobbed in horror,
and he had to stop her hands again. "What did he do?"
  
"No, your father is dead. We did this."  He kissed
her forehead, then trailed his nose down her cheek.
"Try to remember. This is our baby girl. I'm not your
father. You're not a child anymore. You're my wife
and I love you and we didn't do anything wrong. I'd
never do anything to hurt you, honey."
      
"You did this?" she said shakily, easing her rubbing.
"You did this to me?"
  
He pushed her long black hair back from her pretty,
tear-streaked face, smiling. "I suppose I did."
  
"You did this? What's Daddy going to say?"  
  
Mulder exhaled tiredly and put his arms around her,
rubbing her back. She stayed still, like a trapped
wild animal when it realizes there's no escape.
  
"It's fine. You let me deal with him. You take care
of the baby.  Will you do that?"
  
She nodded that she would. "You're still my friend?"
she asked in that sing-songy babyish voice that made
his stomach twist.   
  
"Yes, we're still friends."
  
"She probably needs to eat," Mulder told the hovering
young maid, who was still twisting her hands as he
led Melly down the front stairs. "She needs a bath.
Heat some water for me to shave," he added, "I think 
my beard is scaring her. Then you can go home."
  
Recognizing her as someone she knew, Melly started to
follow her maid to the kitchen, then looked back at
him and stopped.

"Go on," Mulder told her. "Go with her. It's all
right. I'll be right there."

"You did this to me?" she asked numbly, one arm
cradling her belly. "You put this inside me?"
  
The sixteen-year-old maid's face turned scarlet.
  
"I did that to you." He'd say whatever it took to
keep her calm; they could discuss propriety another
night.
  
Her maid tugged on her hand, and Melly followed
hesitantly, seeming unsure what was happening.  Melly
was obedient by nature, and once she understood what
he wanted, she'd spend hours trying to do it
perfectly. He'd probably have to lift her out of the
bathtub and carry her to bed to get her to stop
scrubbing.
  
Mulder moaned as he sat down on the sofa, then pulled
off his boots for the first time in three days, and
lay down for a few seconds. He heard hot water
gurgling from the stove reservoir in the kitchen and
the murmur of the maid talking to Melly, trying to
get her to eat. The stable door opened and closed:
Samuel was taking care of the horses. As the world
grew dark and hazy, Melly's maid asked if he still
wanted to shave, and then covered Mulder with a
blanket when he didn't respond.
  
"Mother?" Samuel's voice asked sharply, and then
screamed, "Father! Daddy!" 

Mulder bolted upright in the dark parlor, on his feet 
before he even had his eyes open. 

"Daddy!" he heard again.  
  
When Mulder got to the back of the big house, his son
was staring through the open doorway of the little
room off of the kitchen that they used for bathing.
Melly liked to soak until she pruned, so Mulder had
installed the biggest bathtub he could find, much to
the chagrin of the Poppy and maids, who had to heat
and carry the water to fill it. There was a basin and
a mirror too, and the inexperienced maid had laid out
a towel and his shaving brush, soap and a mug, and 
the strap to sharpen the razor. A lamp was burning in 
the window, casting a gentle, peaceful yellow glow 
over the calm water filling the bathtub almost to the 
top.

He thought for a moment that the young maid hadn't
been able to find his straight razor.    
  
  *~*~*~*

"Get the doctor!" he yelled into the blackness. Sam
was crying. Melly was hurt and Sam was crying. He
could hear it all around him. The pain was so
tangible he could taste it in his mouth, and it
encased his world like a shroud.
  
Sitting up, Mulder scanned the dark barn as he tried
to get his bearings. Army revolver in hand and naked
to the waist, he scrambled to his feet, listening and
trying to place the noises in some context. His
breath came hard and fast as his body prepared to
take on whatever was out there.  He'd kill it if he
could find it.
  
It was just the storm - just the wind and rain
punishing the thin roof and walls. It howled like a
tormented soul, but it was just the storm. 

Exhaling, he stared into the darkness and waited to
relax. His fingers tingled around the Colt revolver
and a trickle of sweat ran down between his shoulder
blades. Every nerve was alive and alert, waiting,
watching.
  
One of the shutters on the house had worked loose and
was banging. After listening to it slam back and
forth for a few minutes and realizing he didn't want
to go back to sleep, Mulder got up and dressed,
planning to get an early start on his day.  
  
To his disgust, after he'd gotten his shirt soaked
running to the house, stubbed his toe in the
darkness, and had the parlor window refuse to stay up
and bash him on top of the head, the shutter had the
indecency to fall off. He leaned out the window,
still holding it, his hair getting plastered to his
skull by the rain. With both hands full and the
window sash threatening to brain him again, he blew a
drop of water off the tip of his nose and considered
his options. So far, the day was not looking
promising. He wasn't going to get a ladder and fix it
right that second, and the worst of the storm had
passed, so he let the shutter fall to the ground.
  
As he closed the window and contemplated making
himself a cup of coffee, he heard it again: the baby
crying. This time he recognized it as Emily and,
without thinking, trotted up the steps to get her.
  
He stopped in the hallway when he saw Dana's bedroom
door open, realizing he was intruding.  She'd never
expect him to be in the house hours before breakfast,
and she would certainly never expect him to be
upstairs unannounced for any reason.     
  
Through the doorway, he saw a woman's silhouette pick
up the wailing baby and carry her to the window,
fiddling with the front of her nightgown as she
walked. One handed, Dana raised the window and
unfastened the shutters, looking out at the black and
gray sky. The wind was blowing the wrong way for rain
to come in the window, but there was a sudden swirl
of damp, electrified air into the room that made the
curtains billow like the sails of a ship. Holding the
unhappy baby against her chest, she tilted her head
back and inhaled, enjoying the lighting-scrubbed wind 
as though she was a part of it.  
  
He liked that he wasn't the only one who got up to
watch thunderstorms at night. He never would have
guessed she'd do something so frivolous or sensual;
she had her secrets, this woman.      
  
She laid the baby down, making Emily squall even 
louder, and to Mulder's wide-eyed surprise, Dana
gathered her nightgown up and pulled it over her
head, revealing nothing underneath. No, there was
certainly something underneath; he could tell, even
in the shadows. There was something very nice
underneath.  
  
The droplets of water streaming down the back of his
neck started turning to steam.
  
Dana wrapped a blanket around her and picked up Emily
again, then sat down in a rocking chair beside the
window to nurse. The baby stopped crying immediately
and he heard greedy suckling sounds as her mother
murmured to her. Dana's profile looked up and stared
out the open window again, watching the storm rolling
over the treetops as she rocked.       
  
Mulder realized he hadn't moved in a very long time.
He exhaled silently, blowing every bit of air out of
his lungs. The baby was safe. That was all he'd come
upstairs to check. He should never have been upstairs
in the first place.   
  
Without a sound, he turned, slipped down the shadowy
hall, and descended the staircase, avoiding all the
squeaky steps. Except for a few drops of water on the
floor where he had been standing, there was no
evidence of his presence outside her bedroom.  
         
He needed to go home. She was married, she had a new
baby, and he was starting to make a fool of himself.  
  
'Starting?' his conscience asked, recalling her joke
about courting and labeling him a voyeur instead of a
concerned friend who'd stumbled into an embarrassing
situation.  A friend would have left or made his 
presence known when he realized she was unfastening 
her nightgown.       
  
And he wasn't entirely sure it wasn't reciprocated,
at least in some manner. She didn't strike him as a
woman who casually shared any part of herself, and
yet she'd told him of her brothers' and father's
deaths, of worrying about having no word from her
husband in months, and of her concern about her
husband's reaction to their daughter. Except for the
night Emily came and yesterday evening when she'd
taken his hand, they'd never touched. They hadn't
said or done anything improper, and maybe he was
imagining it. And maybe he wasn't. Of course they
were good friends, but Mulder wouldn't have been
happy if his wife had been so friendly with a strange
man while he was away.
  
He needed to go home, he thought, laying down on the
worn sofa in what had once been the front parlor. He
told himself he was staying in the house because of
the storm and he'd get up long before she did and
she'd never know. Another shutter could work loose or
the roof could blow off or, well, something. He
wasn't picky. Truth could be beautiful, but so could
lies.
            
  *~*~*~*
  
There was a very important and proper reason he was
in her bedroom staring at her as she slept, and he 
would remember that reason any second now.
  
It wasn't really a nightgown she was wearing, but an 
old chemise designed to fit under a corset but below 
the neckline of a dress, so it draped low, revealing 
the tops of her breasts and the slopes of her 
shoulders. She could have easily untied it to nurse, 
but she must have preferred to take it off so the 
baby could be against her skin.   
  
Just any second now.  
  
It was thin cotton, washed over and over and dried in
the wind and sun until it was almost transparent and
probably soft as silk. It should have reached her
knees, but it had twisted around her hips so it
barely covered her thighs. And, as if to torment him,
she shifted, bending one knee up while the other fell
outward.  
  
Any second now.
  
A thick braid of auburn hair fell over one shoulder,
but countless strands had slipped out of place during
the night and curled around her face and shoulders.
Against the patched white sheet, she was a study in
pale ivories and the crimsons of her hair, her lips,
and under her chemise, the dark suggestions of her
nipples and Mons Venus.    
  
He swallowed, noticing he couldn't feel his lips or
his fingertips. Dana should really learn how to close
a door. If she were his wife, he'd teach her how to
close a door.
  
She shifted again and the lace hem of the chemise
crept up a little farther and Mulder, fearless soul
that he was, started feeling woozy.    
  
For his own preservation, he covered her with the top
sheet she'd kicked off, managing not to touch her or
make a sound. Then he backed slowly to the hallway,
closed the bedroom door, took a deep breath, and
knocked loudly.
  
Luckily, by the time she woke and answered, he'd
remembered what had been so important in the first
place.
  
"It's Mulder," he called to her, as though she might
have been expecting someone else.  
  
The door opened a crack and she peaked out, smoothing
the stray auburn wisps back from her face. "What is
wrong, Mr. Mulder?"
  
"There are people coming up road from the river: a
mulatto man and a white woman with two boys and a
toddler. The man has a rifle. Could the woman be one
of your friends? A neighbor coming to call?"
   
"There are no neighbors." She stopped to yawn,
forgetting to cover her mouth. "Maybe they are lost."
  
"They'd have to be very lost. No one comes this far
out in the swamp without a reason. What about the
man? Could he be one of your people coming home?"
  
"Do you mean one of my husband's slaves?"
  
He nodded. "Some of the freemen who couldn't find
work in the cities are returning to the plantations.
He doesn't look like a field hand, but maybe a valet
or a butler?"   
  
She had the sheet wrapped around her torso so it
covered her from chest to toes, and she adjusted it
tighter before she opened the door another few 
inches.
  
"He is not one of my husband's slaves."
  
"How can you know without looking? It must have taken
a hundred people to run this place."
  
"They will not return because I told them not to.
This is my husband's country house and his overseer
ran it, Mr. Mulder. We lived in Savannah, but he sent
me here during the war so I would be safe. When the
Yankee Army got close to Savannah, his overseer left
to join the fighting. That left me in charge, and as
soon as the proclamation came from Mr. Lincoln, I had
the Negroes to take everything they could carry and
get as far away as possible, as quickly as possible,
in case the overseer came back. Luckily, he did not."
  
"You little abolitionist." He leaned against the door
frame and grinned at her. "I wondered where
everything went: the china, the silver. I did not
think our Army got out this far to loot, and I
wondered why this was the only plantation house I've
seen that didn't have an old cook or mammy still with
the family. What does your husband think of this?"    
  
"He does not yet know. I did nothing against the
law," she added in her defense.
  
Mulder added a raised eyebrow to his grin before
returning to the topic at hand.
  
"So if this man isn't one of your servants, and the
woman isn't your friend or neighbor, who are they,
Ma'am? Look and tell me if you know them." 
  
He held up his binoculars, and she re-wrapped the
sheet around her one last time and opened the door. 
  
"Do you have a dressing gown?" he asked, feeling
uncomfortably warm as he trailed into the room after
her.
  
"I did. Now I have clothes for the baby," she
answered, going to the window she'd opened a few
hours earlier. "No, I do not know them," Dana said,
handing the binoculars back to him.
  
Mulder looked again, watching the light-skinned Negro
man carrying a rifle and leading two little boys on a
horse. A stunning, dark-haired woman followed, also
on horseback, riding sidesaddle with a toddler in her
arms. "I'd say those are her children, but he's not
the father. They are close, though: the man and
woman.  The boys know him. What could they be doing
out here? Oh shit," he said under his breath.  
  
Mulder shifted the binoculars, adjusting the focus.
On the man's hip was a sleek pearl-handled pistol.
He hadn't been worried about the hunting rifle, but
that was a dueling pistol and he wore it as a regular
sidearm, not stuck in his belt the way he would if it 
was new to him.
  
"What is it, Mr. Mulder?"
  
"Wait here."
  
When he returned from the barn, she was still at the
window, looking like someone gave the Venus de Milo a
pair of binoculars. "The man just pointed to the
smoke coming from the chimney. He is having the woman
and children wait at the edge of the trees. He kissed
her, Mr. Mulder, and now he is coming this way. He
has a pistol, Mr. Mulder."
  
"I know.  Ma'am, look at me. Look at this. Just in
case." He held up the .40 caliber single-shot
Derringer he'd carried in his boot during the war.
It was small enough to fit in his pocket, hence the
nickname pocket pistol. "You only have one shot and
then you need to reload. It's ready to fire now. If
you need to, just aim like you're pointing your
finger and pull the trigger.  You can't shoot very
far, so wait until he's close, and be prepared for it
to knock you backward. It's just a precaution."
  
After handing the Derringer to her, he checked the
Colt Army revolver, making sure all six cylinders
were loaded with a ball and powder, and the pressure
caps were in place, and then replaced it in the
holster on his hip. His bowie knife and saber were on
his other hip, and, except that he hadn't worn his
uniform jacket in weeks, he looked the part of a
Federal Cavalry officer once again.
  
"I get this little gun? You get that big gun and
two knives and all I have is this?" she asked
uncertainly, holding the Derringer by the handle with
two fingers. "Do you have anything else, Mr. Mulder?"
  
Mulder stared at her, not sure whether he was
insulted or amused. "What would you like, Ma'am?" 
  
"I do not know, but I feel like I should just throw
this at him, pick up the baby, and run."
  
He pondered for a second, then retrieved the rifle
he'd left in the hall and unfastened the cartridge
and cap boxes from his belt. From the expression on
Dana's face, it was a more acceptable means of self-
defense. 
  
"It's a .52 caliber Sharps carbine, made to be loaded
and fired on horseback. It will stop a buffalo at two
hundred yards, and I can verify it will more than
stop a man. And probably knock you back about ten
feet. Would this be better?"
  
She handed the pocket pistol back to him, still held
daintily between her index finger and thumb.
  
"Well, I'll have to load it, then. Watch." In rapid
succession, he pulled a linen cartridge from his
cartridge box, opened the breech, shoved the
cartridge in, closed the breech to automatically ram
the bullet and powder in the cartridge, opened his
cap box, fished out a cap, and placed the percussion
cap on the nipple. Cocking the hammer back, he asked
her, "Do you think you could reload it if you had 
to?"
  
"I think I can hit him the first time," Dana
promised, taking the rifle and seeming surprised at
how heavy it was. Still wearing her Greek Goddess
toga, with her loose braid hanging down her back, she
held it up, looking through the sights. "Am I doing
this the right way?"    
       
"You're, uh, close enough." He cleared his throat. 
"I'm going to meet him in front of the house; I'll 
find out what he wants. I'll handle this, and it's 
probably nothing. Maybe they're just very lost. Don't 
shoot unless you have to, and for God's sake don't 
shoot me."            
  
She nodded, squinting through the rifle's sights
again and spreading her legs a little farther apart
to stay balanced. She tilted her head sideways,
biting her lower lip in concentration and sliding her
fingers over the long ribbon of polished steel as
though it was human skin. Mulder left the cartridge
and cap boxes on the windowsill on the off chance she
could manage to reload, and, looking at her again,
cleared his throat a second time and went downstairs 
to confront something less dangerous. 

Somewhere in the world, Samuel Colt and both Mr. 
Smith and Mr. Wesson suddenly became aroused and 
weren't sure why.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
"That's far enough," Mulder said from the porch,
coming down the front steps slowly. "What's your
business?"
  
"I am looking for Dr. Waterston's place," the light-
skinned Negro man said politely in a New Orleans 
drawl with the faintest hint of French behind it.  
  
"You've found it." Trying to intimidate him, Mulder
looked at him steadily, taking his measure, and the
man's brown eyes stared back, not hostile, but not
flinching either.   
  
"Doctor Daniel Waterston of the Chatham Volunteers?
 Surgeon in Company E of the 47th Georgia Regiment?"
   
"Under Colonel's William and Edwards," Mulder added
from memory. "This is his land."
  
"You are not Dr. Waterston."
  
"I'm close enough for you." Mulder's hand casually
nudged the handle of the pistol on his hip. So far,
the man hadn't made any move toward his own weapon.
"What is your business?"
  
"Did you know Dr. Waterston? Is this his land?"
  
"I think I've already answered that," he responded,
keeping up his end of the razor-edged banter. "What
is your business with him?"
  
"I have his wife and family with me."
   
"I doubt that. His wife and family are upstairs."
  
The man's eyebrows twitched in surprise. There was a
pause before he clarified, "His other wife and
family. His Colored family from New Orleans."
  
"Oh," Mulder said, backing toward the house to clear
the way in case Dana decided to shoot after all.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
She was beating those biscuits as though she had a
personal vendetta against them. He waited for her to
cry, but she didn't. The more Dana didn't cry, the
more Mulder wanted to.
  
"She seems nice," he said, trying to sound
optimistic. "Just quiet, which is always nice in a
woman."
  
Dana exhaled loudly and didn't look up from making a
late breakfast for seven. The kitchen table was
floured and the biscuit dough was dumped out, then
attacked with a rolling pin and a biscuit cutter.     
  
In retrospect, that probably hadn't been the most
comforting thing he could have said.
  
Mulder scuffed his boot against the edge of the stove
and stared at the kitchen floor. "Do you understand
what she is saying? What 'placage' is? She was not
really his wife. She was his legally contracted uh-"
He worried the word around his mouth before he said
it aloud. "Mistress."
  
"She was his wife and they have three children. Yes,
I understand very well."
  
"No, she is an octoroon. One-eighth Negro. She was
brought up to, um, please wealthy white men. Une
femme de couleur. They are legendary. In New Orleans,
very light-skinned Negro girls are placed - placage -
with white men and kept as mistresses, sometimes
briefly, but often for months or years.  Sometimes
for life. The woman gets a house and servants, and
the children of the, uh, arrangement are educated and
inherit just as the man's white children do. But she
was not his wife. He could not have legally married
her before the war. Do you understand?"
  
"I understand she has a ten-year old son, a six-year
old son, and an eighteen-month old son. I understand
my husband and I had been married six years. I
understand his commanding officer wrote to her that
he had died, but did not think to write to me. Yes, I
understand."
  
"She did not come here to hurt or insult you, only to
see what her sons had inherited and make a fresh
start. She never knew you existed, just as you never
suspected she did. In New Orleans, every wife is sure
her husband is the exception: the one man who does
not keep a placage mistress. Every mistress is sure
her benefactor either will never marry or married out
of duty, not love. Do you understand? It is-"
  
"Stop it! Please. My English is very good. Thank you,
but I understand, Mr. Mulder. Please do not explain
anything else to me."
  
"I'm sorry," he mumbled, hanging his head. "I'm not
sure what to say."
  
"Why not launch into one of your lectures about how
you would not be happy if I was your wife?" she said
angrily, shoving her pan of biscuits into the oven.
"That your wife gave you a son when she was sixteen, 
and my husband's mistress has three sons to my one 
daughter. Tell me I am too plainspoken and bookish 
and proud. That I would be a lovely woman if only I 
kept my eyes down and my mouth shut, and remembered 
my place and purpose."

"Ma'am, I never said those things to you," he 
reminded her, though he could venture a guess as to 
who had.

"Tell me again that I am difficult, Mr. Mulder," she 
continued, not seeming to have heard him. "If I were 
your wife, you would think me irresponsible with our 
child and disobedient and far too friendly with a 
strange man. Because that is just what I would like 
to hear right now."
  
"If you were my wife- I would never have done this to
my wife. She was too delicate to be hurt like this."
  
"How nice for her," she snapped, slamming the cast
iron oven door closed.
  
At a complete loss for anything to say, wise or
otherwise, he turned and walked quickly out of the
kitchen without looking at her.
   
  *~*~*~*
  
For a woman who'd become both a wronged wife and a
widow in one day, Dana was holding up much too well.
Aside from some very well-mashed mashed potatoes at
dinner and a tendency to talk without moving her
lips, she was acting normally.
  
Which worried him.
  
Benjamin, the light-skinned mulatto man, had been the
doorman at the quadroon balls where white men came to
choose and mingle with their mistresses. That
explained the contrast between his graceful,
gentlemen's gentleman demeanor and the dangerous
glint in his eyes: he'd been watching a woman he
loved follow Dr. Waterston into a bedroom for the
last twelve years.
  
The breathtaking, silent woman, Dori, was exactly
what Mulder had told Dana she was: the daughter of a
quadroon slave and a white Haitian plantation owner
bought and paid for by Dr. Waterston at the age of
seventeen. She'd been kept comfortably in New Orleans
until Dr. Waterston suddenly stopped visiting her
after Christmas. Emily was two months old, so the
good doctor must have been home to see Dana last
fall. All that and fighting a loosing civil war, too;
he had been a busy man.   
  
Mulder heaved himself up the ladder, into the loft,
and flopped on his back on his bedroll. Sighing, he 
folded his hands behind his head and crossed his
ankles, staring up at the crossbeams of the barn
roof. It was too early to go to sleep but too late to
find some chore to keep him out of the house.
Normally, he would have gone to the kitchen and read 
a newspaper or book aloud to Dana, or watched the 
baby while she had a chance to bathe or take a quick 
nap, but he felt awkward around her tonight, as 
though it was somehow his fault she was hurting.      
  
Something rustled in the corner and he turned his
head, thinking he and that owl were going to have it
out again. Instead, he saw Dana sitting with her
knees pulled up to her chest and her face buried in
her folded arms. Only the black tips of her shoes and
the auburn knot of hair at the back of her neck were
visible; everything else was obscured under a huddle
of faded calico fabric.  
  
His heart stopped for a second, hiccupped, and then
restarted. He opened his mouth to say 'Melly,' but
managed to reform it into "Ma'am? Ma'am," he
repeated, scrambling to his feet and bashing his head
into one of the crossbeams of the roof, adding a
companion goose egg to the one from his predawn
encounter with the window. "Are you all right, Ma'am? 
Mrs. Waterston?"
  
Of all ludicrous things, she shook her head earnestly
that she was fine as she sobbed, trying to catch her
breath.  
  
"Oh," he mumbled, shifting his weight from one foot
to the other. Ducking to avoid any more headaches, he
went closer and, squatting down, asked again, "Are
you sure you are all right?"
  
"I am fine, Mr. Mulder," she said through her tears,
still not raising her head. "Why would I not be?"
  
"Where is the baby?" 
  
"With the woman. Dori."
  
"Is Emmy all right? Is anything wrong?"
  
"No, nothing is wrong with Emily. Why do you always
ask me that?" she asked in frustration. "Do you think
something is wrong with my baby?"    
  
"No, I-" He swallowed, rubbing his fingers nervously
over his trouser legs. "You have just had such a
horrible day. Do you want me to take the baby for a
little while?"
  
She inhaled shakily, the worst of her tears seeming
to have passed. "No. She will be hungry soon." 
  
"Do you want me to go away and leave you in peace?"
  
"Yes," she said, so he sat down.
  
"I have been thinking of something, Ma'am. I
understand Dr. Waterston left this place to Dori's
sons, but also that he did not know about Emily. Is
that right? He did not know you were expecting?" He
waited for the nod, then continued, "Mr. Lincoln
freed the slaves, but Congress hasn't yet made them
citizens. We will, of course, but the war just ended
and the Constitution will need to be amended and that
takes time. Until it is, the freedmen are not
American citizens. They are in limbo.  Since the
system of placage no longer exists, the contract your
husband made to care for Dori's children is invalid;
he made a contract regarding a slave and she is no
longer a slave, and her sons are not yet citizens who
can hold property. If you contest his will in court,
you will most likely win."
  
Dana wiped her eyes and raised her face enough that
he could see her flushed cheeks. "I had some choice
about marrying him; she did not. If she wants this
place, with the shutters falling off and the roof
falling in, she can have it. I never want to see it
again - this house or the one in Savannah."
  
"I fixed the shutter. And my roof is not falling in."
  
"It is not your roof, Mr. Mulder." 
  
"Yes, I know that," he mumbled, picking at a mended
place on the sleeve of his shirt.   
  
She raised her head higher, staring at the sun
setting between the cracks in the barn wall. "I
tried," she said slowly, stopping to sniff. "I tried
to be a good wife. I thought I understood what men
wanted in marriage. I did whatever he asked."   
  
"Some men just want any woman they aren't supposed to
have," he said before he thought. "We cut off our
nose to spite our face."
  
"But you are you not one of those men?"
  
"Na- no I am not, I suppose," he said. "I have been
tempted, but... No. It was not worth what it would
have cost me. To have to face Samuel, with him
knowing I had betrayed his mother... To have to live
with myself. There was too much at stake for too
little pleasure."
  
He clamped his mouth closed, promising himself it
would stay that way until he thought of something
proper to say. Eventually, he arrived at the obvious.
"I'm sorry, Ma'am. I'm sorry about your husband. What
an awful way to find out."
  
"It is a relief to have an answer, at least. I know I
should not feel that way, but I do. I feel relieved
to at least know he is dead. The hardest part was the
not knowing, the wondering."
  
"Yes," he said more to himself than to her.  
  
"I think deep down I have known for some time that he
was not coming back. I wanted to do the right thing,
to wait, but there comes a time when you have to stop
waiting and go on with life. Which was what you
advised me to do some months ago."
  
"Yes," he repeated simply, wrapping his arms around
his knees in imitation of her posture. She tilted her
head to the side and he thought for an instant she
was going to lay it against her shoulder, but she
didn't. Through the cracks of the barn wall, the sun
crept a little lower, painting the heavens with its
last dying traces of scarlet and amethyst.     
  
"I am going home, Ma'am. I am not going to return.  I
cannot hide in the swamps forever." He hesitated,
watching the sun teasing them through the weathered
gray boards. "I have a house, a business to run. My
mother is alive. Life will go on. It will just be
very different."
  
"I will miss you," she said without looking at him.
  
"I will miss you as well. Very much." 
  
"Very much?"
  
"Very much. You are my friend. And Ma'am-" He
inhaled, didn't think, and said it all in one breath:
"Mrs. Waterston, despite what I have said, I do think
I would be happy if you were my wife."
  
Turning her head, she stared at him, and Mulder re-
wrapped his arms around his knees and continued
staring purposely at the hints of amber sunset
flickering in from outside.  
  
He cleared his throat. Damn dusty barn. 
  
Dana continued to gape, and the lack of romance in
the air made Cupid shake his head in disgust and
throw up his hands.
  
When she still didn't answer after epoch-like
seconds, Mulder said quickly, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't
have asked you so suddenly, and I shouldn't ask you
to decide so quickly. I just worry; you and Emily are
all alone. The world is not a nice place right now,
Ma'am. I have a great big house in DC with no one to
live in it now but me, and I do not want to be alone.
There is a housekeeper, a cook, a half-dozen
servants. You and your daughter would never want for
anything. It is very nice, and I promise I am not as
odd as I seem."
  
"Do you love me?"
  
He considered, trying to find the right way to say
it. "I like you very much. I like being with you and
talking with you. I care for your daughter; she fills
a void inside me. I care for you and I want you as my
wife, but want and love: for men they are not the
same."
  
"I would settle for being wanted."    
  
"Are you saying yes, then?"
  
"Yes, I think I am," she answered unsteadily.  He
hadn't managed to sweep her off her feet, but he had
confused her into matrimony. 
  
He nodded as though they had just agreed on a price
of a horse. "Good. Well then. That is, that is fine,
then. We can be married tomorrow in Savannah before
we leave for Washington." 
 
"All right," she agreed, looking a little unfocused.
"Mr. Mulder..."
  
"Yes?"
  
"What is your first name?"
  
"Fox. Fox William Mulder. I am Bill Mulder's son."
  
"Oh."
  
She must have no idea what that meant. After
graduating at the top of his class from West Point,
Senator Mulder had served in Congress for decades, as
had Jack Kavanaugh: Sarah and Melissa's father. The
majority of the literate population of the United
States knew who Bill Mulder's boy was.
  
"Do you want me to call you 'Fox'?"
  
"No," he said immediately. Sarah, Melly, and his
parents had called him 'Fox'. "My friends call me
Mulder. You are my friend."
  
"All right. I should check on the baby," she mumbled
after a bit.
  
"Yes, you should."
  
He stood, offering his hand to help her up and
cautioning her to watch her head, although she was a
good six inches below any of the crossbeams. She kept
hold of his hand as they made their way across the
loft, brushing her thumb lightly against his palm. 
  
"If I had known you wanted to marry me, I would have
been nicer to you," she said as he helped her down
the first few steps of the ladder. "I can be a little
more biddable."
  
"I doubt that, but you are welcome to try," he
answered sarcastically, finally letting go. "I will
see you in the morning. I want to leave early."
  
"I will be ready," she answered, looking up at him
for a second and then climbing down the ladder to the
floor.   
  
He waited until she had closed the barn door and was
walking to the house before he wiped his sweaty palm
on his backside.
  
"Well then," he told himself, feeling strangely calm.
  
He'd get up early and bathe and put on clean clothes,
although it would be nice if he had a suit instead of
his uniform. He should telegraph from Savannah to let
Poppy, the housekeeper, know he was coming home and
bringing a woman and a baby. A wife. He was bringing
a wife and a stepdaughter. They could stay at a hotel
in Savannah tomorrow night, and he should see if
there was a ship bound for DC; there was no need to
bounce the baby around on a dirty, noisy train, and
Dana needed more rest than she'd been getting.
  
He laughed at himself, realizing only he would plan a
honeymoon with an eye toward the bride getting some
sleep, and then felt his face getting warm. 

Without bothering to undress, Mulder lay back again, 
folding his arms behind his head and crossing his 
ankles: his favorite position for contemplation.  He 
stared up at the rafters, knowing he would never get 
to sleep and, for the first time in months, perhaps 
years, was eager for morning to come.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
End: Paracelsus II


Paracelsus III
  
  *~*~*~*
  
My Dearest Melly,
  
I almost wrote 'my dear wife,' and had to stop
myself. It just flows automatically from my pencil to
the page; I can barely remember a time when you were
not my wife.  
  
My life has been so full and your presence colors so
much of it. I think of you as pink, Melly: the
palest, most delicate shade of pink. You are the
touch of fine lace on a hem and the tip of a rosebud
as it unfurls. My mother I think of as soft yellow;
the color of morning sun rays and sweet lemonade. My
father was royal blue; a solid, proper color, and
appropriate for almost any occasion. Samuel is red,
like the human heart and the flag the matador waves
at the bull. He is the color of passion and life and
warm strawberry syrup. This woman, Dana, I don't yet
know what color she is. Perhaps she is none: a clean
slate. Perhaps she is a chance to try again.  
  
I know she is hurting; I see pain scouring her like
sand against fine porcelain. I do not think this 
is real for her yet; she is simply functioning, 
finding comfort in the mundane until reality catches 
up with her. You found comfort just having me close 
to you, as though I protected you from the nightmares 
and the monsters in the shadows. I wonder if she 
feels the same tonight.
  
I wonder if I should tell her the last woman I kissed
besides you was your sister, and that was when I was
barely fifteen. I have not told her about Sarah at
all, though I should before we reach DC and someone
else does. There are so many secrets I should tell
her, but I do not, and I am not sure why I do not. I
lock them inside me in that most private place in my
heart where I know they will be safe and I do not
give the key to anyone.      
  
When we left her home, she gave me only one bag to
put take to the buggy, and it is mostly things for
the baby: I peeked in it when she wasn't looking. I
am accustomed to your packing, and I thought how sad
it was that she could fit everything precious to her
into one bag and a makeshift-cradle. Then I looked at 
my battered old knapsack...      
  
She sleeps like you do, Melly. She closes her eyes
and is gone, oblivious to the world. I watch her
sleeping now and feel many things, but mostly
comfort. I know how to do this: how to be someone's
husband. I know how to be a father. I was both before
most of my friends had tasted their first drop of
whiskey. That is what Dana and her daughter need, and
I need to be needed, so perhaps she and I will fill
in the cracks in the other's soul.   
  
Trust that I love you. Always. You are with me for
eternity: locked safely away inside my heart where no
one can hurt you.
  
Mulder
  
  *~*~*~*
  
Shadow seemed perplexed at his demotion from dashing
cavalry horse to carriage nag, and kept turning his
ears backward, listening to see if the joke was on
him. He and Dr. Waterston's buggy had been introduced
before dawn and had spent an hour achieving a
cordial, if stilted relationship before Mulder had
been certain it was safe for Dana and Emily. The big
gray animal still seemed offended, and looked back as
if to plead 'What have you reduced me to?'   
    
"Only for a bit, boy," Mulder interrupted his story
to assure him.   
  
Shadow answered with a haughty snort, then picked up
his pace, eager to get wherever they were going
before any of his horse-friends saw him. It was a
very nice buggy; Shadow was just a snob. He was still
technically the property of the US Federal
Government, and like some civil servants, he felt it
was his place to be competent, not versatile. 
  
The Confederate Army had requisitioned almost all the
horses in the south halfway through the war, so
Mulder had found a collection of forgotten buggies in 
the carriage house, most in perfect condition. The 
slaves had taken some of the smaller wagons, but 
under a layer of dust were beautiful two- and four 
horse-carriages, remnants of an era when the stables 
must have held twenty horses, with four matching bay 
mares just for going to church on Sunday and a pair 
of black geldings only for funerals.   
  
"That was my husband's favorite as well," Dana had
said of the first light gig he'd hitched Shadow to,
and so that one had immediately been replaced with a
black, two-seated open carriage with a canvas roof to
protect them from the sun. He and Emily were
conversing philosophically in the front seat, and
Dana was sound asleep in the back, a jumble of dull
black silk and white petticoats across the velvet
upholstery.
  
Comfortable Shadow wasn't going to bolt or swerve,
Mulder switched the reins to one hand and offered the
baby his finger to grip while he searched for the
right word. He could say 'regal,' but that didn't
quite fit the tone and these little touches were
important. As he drove past, he looked at the
crumbling chimneys marking where a plantation house
had stood, then across the broad lawn and down the
hundred year-old rows of gnarled oak trees lining the
driveway.
  
"Palatial," he finally told Emily, who blinked at him
sleepily.  He thought a moment, pooling his editorial
resources. "The palatial stone walls rise from the
scorched earth; the broken-out windows dark, distant,
distrustful eyes."  
  
Deep in a padded basket on the seat beside him, Emily
yawned. The buggy swayed on its springs as the wheels
rolled over the muddy road to the river, lulling her
to sleep.
  
"I'm not going to finish if you're going to be so
critical of my consonance," he said softly. "Anyway,
the Federal Army swept through the countryside, an
unflinching blue force leveling anything in its path.
It's called 'total war,' Emmy, and in the end, it
looks like this. We won, but we ripped families apart
and tore our nation in two to do it. I heard one of
my men say, 'I love my country, but if this war -
where we burn cities and turn women, children, and
old men out to starve in order to win - ever ends, I
swear to God I will never love another.' But we did 
win, and we marched through Washington as conquering 
heroes while ladies cheered and threw flowers, and 
then, after the parade, here we are. We have not only 
conquered, we have crippled the south and now hold it 
tightly by the throat under military rule. We are too 
angry to rebuild it and too proud to let it crawl 
away and lick its wounds, so we grind it under our 
boot heels when there is nothing left to grind. There 
are more than a million freed slaves expected to make 
their way, most unable to read or write. Some go 
north, only to find the north is only marginally more 
hospitable to Negroes than the south. Some go back to 
the plantations, only to find nothing but this-" he 
nodded across the fields to the burnt mansion. "For 
miles. Some go to the cities, where the vultures are 
already circling, waiting to pick the Confederate 
carcass."
  
He paused again, filing that last phrase away for
later use.      
  
"There are so many widows that there is a shortage of
black crepe for mourning dresses. In our cemeteries
are two hundred and fifty thousand 'glorious dead',
though I doubt a corpse cares if it is buried in blue
or gray. The soldiers who survived, the heroes: the
worst of our scars do not show and, I fear, will
never fully heal. We fought for ideals and we ended
up ankle-deep in our own blood and rhetoric, Emmy.
After so much war, people forget what they are
fighting for, and when it is over, whether they have
won are lost, they only remember that they are tired.
And tired, hungry people, black or white, are easy
prey. We have won the battles, but I think this
country will spend the next hundred years finishing
this war."
  
Emily yawned again, settling firmly into her morning
nap.
  
"Daddy's opinions," he added as she closed her eyes,
"Are not always popular, but Daddy owns the
newspaper, so he can print what he wants."
  
In back seat of the buggy, he heard Dana finally
shifting.  Mulder exhaled, blowing the dust off his
husband role and putting his inner self away like
summer clothes packed between layers of tissue in a
trunk in the attic.
  
"I have her, Dana," he told her from front. "Are you
thirsty?"
  
He heard her pat the empty space on the floor of the
buggy in front of her, hesitate, pat again, and then
sit upright as quickly as her tightly laced stays
allowed.
  
"I have her," he repeated, looking back over his
shoulder. "She's up here with me."   
  
The carriage tilted slightly and her silk dress
rustled as she moved, looking around as she tried to
get her bearings. Blinking sleepily, Dana leaned over
the front seat to check on the baby, then stared out
at the road as Shadow clipped along.
  
"I did not mean to fall asleep. Where are we, Mr.
Mulder?"
  
"Mulder," he corrected yet again. "The first dock is
not far from here. We will be in Savannah by evening.
Sit back before you fall."
  
Ignoring him, she rubbed her cheek, then glanced at
the sunlight blinking through the trees. While Mulder
got up to meet the sunrise, Dana and that hoot owl
would be compatible roommates; his definition of
leaving 'early' had been about two hours earlier than
hers.           
  
"Not long," he answered before she asked how long
she'd been asleep. "Lie back down if you want."
  
"What am I doing in the back seat?"
  
"Snoring and drooling on the upholstery," he teased.
"Well, only a little and only in a very feminine
manner. You fell asleep against my shoulder. I put
you back there so you would be comfortable. Are you
thirsty?"
  
He reached into his knapsack at his feet and handed
his canteen back over the seat, accidentally, blindly
bumping his forearm against her breasts.  
  
"Sorry," they both said at exactly the same time,
then listened to the carriage wheels roll along for
several uncomfortable minutes.  
  
"The baby will need to eat soon," he informed her, as
though he would know better than she. 
  
"Not yet," she answered.
  
"No, not yet, but soon. She is asleep right now."
  
He was still getting used to touching her, casually
and otherwise, being acceptable, even expected. He'd
held her hand and stroked her face, once even leaning
over and kissing her cheek, but each move was
carefully rehearsed in his mind beforehand.  
   
"Which type of husband are you?" Dana asked after a
long silence.
  
"Which type of husband am I?" he echoed, watching the
road. "You make me sound like something you'd buy at
market. Do you mean 'what kind of husband' am I?"
  
"Yes. That is what I mean."
  
"You know me, Dana."
  
"No, I do not. You live far inside yourself, Mr.
Mulder. I think you could walk for miles and not meet
another person inside your thoughts. No, I do not
know you."
  
He stared at the horse's haunches, trying to
formulate an acceptable answer - some way to convey
that her faith in him wasn't misguided.     
  
She'd been loyal to Dr. Waterston, only to discover
his affections had been duplicitous, to say the
least. Some wives would have been relieved to have
their husbands' physical needs directed elsewhere
but, out of pride, if nothing else, he doubted Dana
was one of them. Aside from their conversation in the
barn the previous night, she refused to discuss it,
of course. She'd already been 'fine, Mr. Mulder'
several times since breakfast.
  
"You know me as well as anyone. Perhaps not which
shirt is my favorite and how I like my tea, but those
are details. You have seen me angry. I have a temper,
but I try not to take it out on my family. I am
headstrong. I tend to want my way and want it now.  I
have been known to confuse opportunism with
recklessness. I curse. I seldom drink, and I usually
curl up and go to sleep if I do. I come home at
night. Often I come home for lunch, too, but if I do
not, my office is only a few blocks away; just send a
servant if you need me. I like children, obviously,"
he added, nodding to Emily in the basket beside him.
"Did I answer your question?"
  
"No, you answered everything but my question."
  
"Bidd-a-ble," he reminded her. 
  
"I am trying," she said edgily, still partially
asleep. "I only want to know what you want from me
and you will not tell me."  
  
Sighing, he tightened the reins, stopping Shadow and
turning back to look at her. "I think you just have a
case of pre-wedding jitters. Come sit up front," he
said, climbing down and offering his hands to help
her. "I will tell you all about Washington. It's a
nice place, except for the open sewage canal and the
pickpockets."
  
"What is jitters?" she asked, scooting to the left
side of the seat. "Like vapors? No, I do not have
that."
  
He grinned as he put his hands around her waist and
steadied her as she stepped down. "Mind your skirt,
Miss Difficult," he reminded her out of habit. "The
wheels are muddy."
  
There wasn't much space between the high carriage and
the muddy ditch running alongside the road, so he
stood close, and her body slid down the front of his
as he lowered her to the ground. It was another
accident, but a highly erotic one that make his
breath catch in his throat.
  
Instead of flinching, blushing, or jerking away, she
stood still, leaving her hands on his shoulders and
staring up at him.  
  
In the depths of his mind, he saw a fleeting image of
him kissing her passionately, devouring her mouth as
he tangled his fingers in her long hair. In the
vision, he gathered up her cotton shift and jerked it
over her head, then roughly pushed her back onto a
soft mattress, unapologetic about what he wanted. As
he undressed, she opened her legs shamelessly and
watched him, waiting. He saw himself nude, yellow
candlelight flickering over his skin as he knelt in
front of her on their bed, letting her wait a few
more seconds. She wanted him inside her: hard, fast,
forceful; he could see the impatience in her eyes.
She wanted him to revel in her body, to lose
control, to make her lose control until they were
both spent and sated.
  
Then he blinked, and the vision was gone.
  
He licked his lips.   
  
"These," he answered hoarsely, putting his hand over
her heart as they stood beside the buggy, "Are
jitters."
  
For almost an instant, he truly believed he was only
trying to clarify the English language for her. His
hand resting at the top of her breast was merely a
coincidence. He even looked down at his hand,
wondering how it had gotten there. Queen Victoria
would be appalled.
  
"Are they?" she whispered as if there was anyone
around for miles.   
  
"Yes," he answered automatically, barely hearing her.
His body hummed. She seemed electric, and his
fingertips tingled like he was touching a telegraph
wire. Dana was wearing what must have been her
Sunday-best, pre-war, pre-baby black dress, and her
corset was laced tightly to get it to fit. With no
way to take a deep breath, her chest rose and fell
rapidly under his palm.  
  
"Is this what you're asking?" he murmured, "What kind
of husband am I?"
  
Her head moved almost imperceptibly and he covered
her lips with his, tilting her face upward. He'd
intended a chaste kiss, but then he closed his eyes
and the ruined world receded except for the feel of
silky fabric, the scent of her skin, and the taste of
her mouth.  
  
"Is this what you wanted to know?" he whispered, his
face still close to hers. "If I am rough? Am I 
rough?"
  
"No," she mumbled, leaning heavy against him.     
  
"No," he answered, brushing his mouth against hers as
he spoke. "I am not. I said I wanted you, not that I
wanted to hurt you." 
  
"You did say that," her voice agreed from far away.
  
To Mulder, they were standing still and the planet
was pivoting around them, a brilliant swirl of greens
and blues. Closing his eyes, he urged her lips apart,
needing to be inside her. Her heart beating faster as
he slid his fingers down, gently weighing and
exploring her breast. She gasped as he ran his thumb
over her nipple, and he felt her hands tighten on his
shoulders as if they were making love.
  
"Did you want me to be rough?"
  
"No," she breathed out shakily.
  
"Are you sure?" he responded in a low, gravely voice
that recalled dark alleys and elicit acts. "You know
I want you, but what do you want: politeness or
passion, Dana? I lived politely for years. Is that
what you want? Or do you want something more?"
  
"I do not know," she mumbled, gasping as he found her
nipple again with his thumb, passing over it in long,
luxurious strokes.
  
"I think you do," he whispered into her ear. "I think
you do know what you want." He slid his other hand
down her back and over her bottom, cupping it and
pulling her pelvis against him. She murmured
something in Gaelic, but didn't try to pull away,
although she must have been able to feel him hard
against her abdomen. Against his neck, her breath
came in short little pants, feeling like sparks
against his skin. "Don't you?" he asked huskily.    
  
The carriage rolled a few inches as Shadow shifted
his feet, bringing reality and morality back like an
explosion of light.  
  
Mulder startled, then recoiled as if he'd tried to
embrace fire. Staring down at Dana's swollen lips, he
wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, trying to
figure out what had happened. It wasn't real; he
wasn't doing this. Another minute and he'd have her
on the wet grass in the next field like they were
only the rutting animals Darwin said they were.
  
She opened her eyes, seeming dazed as she looked up
at him. He hoped she'd faint in mortification and
forget what had just happened, but Dana didn't seem
like the fainting type. Letting her go, he braced
himself to be slapped, but she just stood there,
trying to catch her breath.  
  
Taking another step back, he swallowed nervously and
avoided eye contact. He couldn't have been more
horrified at himself if he'd just been caught in an
alley with a prostitute with his trousers around his
ankles.
  
By his mother.  

And all his mother's socialite friends.  
  
"My God, Dana, I am sorry," he said earnestly, not
sure what to do with his hands except not to put them
on her again. "You aren't yet my wife; I shouldn't
have touched you like that. I certainly should never
have said those things to you. Not ever. I don't know
what I was thinking. Really, I do not."
  
Another nod as she stared at the ground, smoothing
her already-smooth hair.  
  
"Dana?"
  
"I am fine." She looked up, then dropped her gaze
again, clearing her throat and moving away.  
  
She didn't look fine. Her face was flushed and her
eyes shone like the surface of a lake in the
moonlight. She looked as drunkenly wanton and
dangerous as he felt.
  
He stared at her as she stared at the muddy road,
then he exhaled forcefully. He could have belabored
his apology, but it seemed easier to just move on and
save both of them the embarrassment.  

"Up you go," he instructed primly as though nothing
had happened, and she put her hands on his shoulders
again, letting him lift her carefully onto the seat.
She slid the baby to the corner and scooted over,
making room for him beside her. 
  
He climbed up after her, picked up the leather reins,
and told Shadow to walk on. The buggy lurched, then
rocked from side to side as the horse trotted. As
they turned a bend on the road, he looked back,
wondering about that rash, shameless man who had 
briefly taken control of his body. He couldn't
imagine what Dana must think of him.   
  
"I met you here," he commented, needing to say
something. "On this road. Just before Emily came."
  
"Yes," she answered, staring out at the cypress
trees, keeping her hands properly folded on her lap.
  
"Had I met you before?" he asked curiously. "In New
York, perhaps? You said your family settled there."
  
"No. I do not recall meeting you," she said politely.
  
"I travel on business, sometimes. I just thought
perhaps..." He trailed off, knowing he was talking
nonsense. Her family had come to America a year
before she met and married Dr. Waterston and moved to
Savannah. Two years after that, she'd been sent to
his plantation in the swamp for safekeeping, where
she had seldom seen a soul except the servants. "When
I kissed you, you seemed familiar to me, as though I
had known you."
  
"You do know me, Mr. Mulder," she said, again
misunderstanding his meaning.
  
"Of course," he agreed, dropping the subject.   
  
'She agreed to be your wife,' his rational self
argued silently. 'She has been married before; she
knows what that means.' He turned his heart over,
examining it for signs of guilt, but instead found
fear. He had not been raised to treat women roughly
or disrespectfully, and it frightened him that it
came so naturally.   
  
And she had not objected; it bothered him that she
had not objected. Then again, why bother to object?
He'd been honest about why he wanted to marry her.
Aside from being concerned for her and Emily, he
wanted a home, a family, and her in his bed. It was a
common enough reason to take a wife, but didn't seem
so romantic in the prudent light of day.
  
A generation of marriageable men was dead, leaving a
generation of well-bred ladies who had been brought
up exclusively to marry and make homes, but there
were few husbands left to do that with. Some widows
took comfort in their black veils and destitution,
but others married far beneath their social rank out
of desperation. A single man found himself knee-deep
in adoring young women, most of whom had small
children, no money, and no place to go. It was all
very flattering if one didn't think too hard. The
choice was often tolerating a husband's demands or
tolerating starvation, and he wondered if Dana was
making that choice.
   
He opened his mouth to apologize, to even lie and say
he loved her, then closed it again without speaking.  
  
Mulder slapped the reins against the horse's rump,
ordering him to trot faster. Immediately, he decided
that was too bouncy for the baby and tightened the
reins, slowing them. Shadow glanced back at him,
looking annoyed.  
  
Searching for something to do, Dana picked up the
sleeping baby and held her, putting the basket in the
back seat.
  
"She looks like you," he commented, searching for a
neutral topic.
  
"I had thought she looks like her father."
  
"Bald?" 
  
"No, not bald," she responded, sighing. 
  
He grinned at her, letting her know he was joking.
"Well, regardless, I think she looks like you and she
is beautiful. Even bald," he could not resist adding
to his roundabout complement.  
  
"You can be very difficult as well, Mr. Mulder." 
  
Chuckling, he tugged gently at her sleeve, making
physical contact again and watching to see how she'd
react. "It's part of my charm." 
   
"Did you pay money for this charm?" she responded
uncertainly.  
  
At first he thought she'd misunderstood, but then
realized he was the one being teased. 'Bidd-a-ble,'
he mouthed at her, smiling, and she laid her head
against his shoulder, closing her eyes again.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
He didn't think of himself as the most rugged, kill-
it, skin-it, and eat-it-bloody-and-raw man's man, but
he wasn't a limp-wristed city boy who sat around
buffing his nails all day, either. He could spend the
night on the dirt floor of the nasty clapboard shack,
huddled near the  fire and playing poker with marked
cards. He could take his turn as they passed around
the bottle of cheap rum, laughing and slapping each
other in the back as they choked it down. He even had
a few dirty jokes he'd been saving to tell Frohike,
and those were sure to make him some friends among
the rough men at the dock. It could actually turn out
to be a pleasant night.
  
The problem was what to do with his soon-to-be wife
and stepdaughter.
  
Mulder looked back at the buggy where Dana was
jiggling the wailing baby against her shoulder and
watching him expectantly. She had suggested waiting
for a river boat at the dock near Waterston's
plantation, but Mulder hadn't seen any reason why
they couldn't just drive to Savannah and catch a
steamer the next morning; he saw no sense in spending
the night on a boat when they could spend it in a
nice hotel. Putting his hands on his hips, he turned
back to survey the churning, muddy river. They'd
crossed the others with no trouble, but all the water
from the storm two nights ago seemed to have ended up
here. 
 
"Ferry's done washed away," some Goliath of a man
wearing buckskin informed him. "Ya ain't gettin'
'cross tonight. Best try in the mornin'"
  
"What about a flatboat?" Mulder asked as the water
lapped over the edge of the pier. "Could we rig a
rope and pole across on a flatboat?" 
  
"Ya could try." Goliath nodded back at Emily. "How
well ya reckon that baby can swim?"
  
"You're not being very helpful."
  
"I ain't sayin' ya cain't try it. It's a free river.
That's an awful pretty young Missus ya got there.
Tell ya what: you tie a rope to the dock, strip down,
jump in, and swim it 'cross to the other side. After,
say, ten minutes, I'll pull yer body back, no charge.
Leave them breeches here, 'cause I'm thinkin' they'll 
fit me fine. Always did favor blue." 
  
Mulder gritted his teeth and exhaled slowly through
his nose. It was almost dark. He could sleep
outdoors, but Dana and Emily couldn't. They could
turn back, but even if he had any lamp oil for the
lamps on the buggy to see to drive at night, they
hadn't passed a standing house in more than an hour.
The Low Country was a series of swamps, inlets, and
islands, and if this river was cresting, the others
were as well. They were trapped, and the motley river
men standing outside the bunkhouse didn't look like
promising roommates for a woman and a baby.  
  
"We'll need a place to sleep. Is there anywhere else?
A barn? Anything?"
  
"Why, there's a fine hotel just up a piece. Shine yer
shoes while ya sleep an' everything," Goliath
answered sarcastically. "Just set 'um outside the
door."
  
Mulder gave up and walked away. Groping her like a
savage this morning followed by a night in a shack
with a half-dozen strange men, a bed on a dirt floor,
and a colicky baby: what better way to impress a
woman?  
  
"Ya'll can put up here," the man yelled from behind
him. "Won't charge ya much. And we stink fer free."
  
  *~*~*~*  
  
Melly had been breathtaking. Not pleasant, not
pleasing, not lovely: stand-there-and-just-stare-at-
her breathtaking. Ethereal. Agelessly, classically
stunning. Of the two Kavanaugh sisters, she was said
to have been the prettier one, and Sarah, even at
fifteen, had been strikingly beautiful in her own
right. Melissa had been tall, with high cheekbones
and thick, black hair that recalled Cherokee in her
ancestry. Deep brown eyes, full breasts, a tiny
waist, and then long, shapely legs; an artist
couldn't have drawn her any more flawlessly. He used
to run his fingertips over the broad, red slash of
her mouth and down the delicate skin of her throat
and just marvel at the perfection.      
  
Dana was pretty. He had noticed. She was fair, with
beautiful, wavy auburn hair and big blue eyes, like a
china doll. She was petite - dainty, almost - and it
made a man feel very masculine to stand beside her.
Being Irish added a mysterious, exotic air of 
crumbling stone castles and fairy-people. And, if
one didn't mind bright women, she could be dryly,
unexpectedly funny.
  
Dana was pretty. He had noticed, he was hadn't given
it much thought. No woman compared favorably to a
ghost. 
  
It took him a while to realize the men outside the
bunkhouse were making excuses to talk to him just to
be close to Dana. Some were crewmen waiting for the
next boat, some were hunters or trappers, and some
had just had enough of civilization for a while. They
were coarse, cautious, lonely, and as delighted as
children at Christmas to see a pretty lady.  
  
Dana seemed unaware of the surreptitious attention.
She had been quiet since noon, and that was never a
good sign with her. It seemed to be becoming real for
her, how much her life had changed in the last
thirty-six hours, and she needed time inside herself
to just be still. Mulder remembered what it had felt
like after Melly's death. For weeks, he had lived in
a separate world where colors and sounds and tastes
were muted. He understood, and as much as possible,
he wanted to give her that time. 
      
"Little 'un ya got there," Goliath observed,
squatting down to examine Emily, who was still
squalling unhappily in Dana's arms. Dana had nursed
her, burped her, changed her, held her, put her down,
and picked her up again. Emily seemed to be crying
simply because she felt like it. "Six weeks?" 
  
"Eight," Mulder answered for her.   
  
"Umph," he responded, taking a good look at Dana as
he sat down heavily on the ground. "He ain't happy."
         
"She," Mulder responded, taking the baby, who
immediately started to settle down.  
  
"She wanted Daddy," Goliath said decisively, and
didn't get a response.  
  
Dana was sitting on a bench beside Mulder and keeping
her head down, but he saw her glance at him out of
the corner of her eye.  
  
There was a respectful hush as two men stepped out of
the woods: an old trapper and a teenage boy barely
old enough to have a mustache.  
  
"You steal that uniform?" the old man with a gray
beard halfway down his chest and tobacco-stained
teeth asked, propping his Revolutionary War-era
musket against the outer wall of the bunkhouse and
standing over Mulder.   
  
Mulder had been in his shirtsleeves all day, but had
brought his uniform jacket from the buggy in case
Dana got cold after the sun went down. He was
planning on putting it on long enough to get married,
then never wearing it again for the rest of his life.
"No," Mulder answered. "It's mine."   
  
"Says yer an officer, Yank."
  
"I was." 
  
"Lost an arm to the Yanks at Gettysburg," Yellow-
Teeth informed him, tilting his head toward his empty
left sleeve. The old man leaned close, fingering the
Bowie knife on his hip. "And my nephew here lost his
Pa. You at Gettysburg?"
  
"No."
  
"Antietam?"
  
"No." 
  
The other men were beginning to gather in a half-
circle to watch. Mulder really didn't want to begin
married life with a knife fight, but this man seemed
to be itching for a brawl.
  
"Fredricksburg?  Bull Run?"
  
Another "No."  
  
The old man paused to spit. "Then where the hell were
ya, Colonel Yank?" 
  
Goliath looked up, and Yellow-teeth and a half-dozen
other men smirked.
   
"I was with General Grant at Shiloh," he answered
coolly. "Then Chickasaw Bluffs. Vicksburg. Stone's
River. Chickamauga. I served under General Sherman in
Chattanooga. Then Missionary Ridge. Lookout Mountain.
Dalton. Kennesaw Mountain. Peachtree Creek and on to
Atlanta, then Savannah, and the Carolinas."
  
There was a pause, and he felt Dana's body tense on
the bench beside him.

"Get wounded?"
  
Mulder handed her the baby, and Dana lowered her head
farther, focusing intently on Emily. Standing up, he
unbuttoned his shirt and revealed a pink scar from a
bayonet that crossed diagonally from the left side of
his chest to his abdomen. Later in the war, a minie
ball had grazed his shoulder, but that wound wasn't
as impressive or as life threatening as the one he'd
gotten in Tennessee.  It was one of those 'another
inch either way and it would have killed you' wounds,
and the scar had a sobering effect on the river men.
  
"Chattanooga," he told the old man, who leaned
forward to examine the long, raised, jagged line,
tracing his dirty fingernail over it. "My father died
during the siege of Richmond; one of my uncles was
killed at the first battle of Bull Run. My only son
went missing last fall; he just never came home from
the war. The fighting's over, and even if it wasn't,
I've seen enough death for one lifetime.  So has 
every other soldier, regardless of which side he was
on."
   
"Amen," Yellow-teeth decided, producing and offering
a jug of some mysterious clear liquid. Whatever the
test was, Mulder must have passed it. He buttoned his
shirt, sat down, and relaxed, running his hand over
Dana's back to assure her it was all right.   
   
As Mulder put the bottle to his lips, several of the
men dispersed into the woods, disappointed, but
others grinned expectantly. He swallowed against his
better judgment, then gasped, "My God. What the hell
is that?"
  
"Mother's milk," the old man grinned as Goliath
reached for the bottle. "No offense to the lady: my
language at all."
  
"None taken," Dana answered as Mulder felt the home-
brewed alcohol burning its way down to his stomach.   
  
It was the first time she'd spoken, and the men
looked at her again, taking note of the accent.
After two months, Mulder almost didn't notice it. It
seemed as natural for her to speak with a Gaelic
accent as it was for Melly to speak with a hint of
the Tennessee Smokey Mountains in her voice. 
  
A quiet, red-haired man was sitting on a stump near
the bunkhouse, and immediately addressed her, saying
what sounded to Mulder like, "Gobledy-gobledy-guke?"
  
"Gobledy-gook," Dana responded immediately, her eyes
lighting up a bit.  
  
"Gobledy-gook-guke-gobledy-guke?" the Irishman asked,
coming over and boldly plopping down on the ground
beside the bench where he and Dana were sitting, like
they were old acquaintances.
  
Mulder cleared his throat, trying to be subtle. He
shifted his feet. He told her he wanted a drink, only
to have her get up, bring him a dipper of water, and
sit back down without ever pausing what must have 
been a captivating conversation with the Irishman.
They could have been discussing running away together 
for all Mulder knew. He couldn't remember her ever 
being that interested in anything he had to say.   
  
"Dana," he finally said firmly, and she glanced back
at him in surprise, as though she'd forgotten he
existed.

"I am sorry; I did not mean to be rude. This man was
in one of the Irish brigades from New York. He was
asking me about his brother, and I was asking if he
knew my father and brothers," she explained.
  
"Did he?"
  
"No, I-" She paused while Irishman said something,
producing a yellowed envelope from his pocket. "He
wants to know if you can read. He paid a, a-" The
Irishman repeated a word, and Dana shook her head and
blushed, not sure how to translate it into English.
"A mistress.  No, not a mistress, but like a mistress
for money. He paid this kind of woman in town write a
letter to his brother's commanding officer for him,
and this is the response. It is in English. He would
like for you to read it, and for me to tell what
happened to his brother."
  
"Of course." Mulder took the letter, the edges brown
from being carried around for so long. In theory, the
Army posted lists of the dead, wounded, missing, and
captured, and notified families of changes in their
loved one's status. In practice, it was an inaccurate
science. One mangled body was mistaken for another; a
deserter was thought to be missing in action; a man
deserted under one name and re-enlisted, and died,
under another; a soldier directly in front of a
cannon blast simply vaporized.  In practice, many men
were still 'missing' months after the war had ended,
and would continue to be for the next fifty years.   
  
He skimmed the paper, summarizing, "His brother was
captured and sent to Andersonville. It was a
Confederate prison camp in Georgia where captured
Federals - Yankees," he clarified, "Were housed.
After that, the commanding officer does not know,
but he offers his condolences. It's not in the
letter, Dana, but tell him the government just tried
Henry Wirz, the man who ran Andersonville, and
sentenced him to hang. The newspapers say more than
thirteen thousand - thirty percent - of the men sent
to that camp died, most of starvation."
  
While Dana translated, Mulder reread the brief
letter, then added, "The commander suggests writing
to a nurse named Clara Barton. She went to
Andersonville after the war ended to organize the
records and graves of the dead, and if there's any
record of how or when his brother died, the commander
believes she might know of it."
  
Again, Dana repeated that, and then there was
silence. The other men around the campfire stared
into the flames, pretending they weren't listening.
The Irishman nodded curtly, said something, then
stood and disappeared into the woods.
  
"He said to tell you 'Thank you,'" Dana said softly,
and Mulder rubbed her back again. She turned her head
to look at him, and he stroked her cheek, smiling
sadly at her.  
  
"He wanted to know. You said it is better to know
than to wonder," he whispered. "Right?" 
  
She nodded, focusing on the baby again, and he slid
off the bench to sit on the ground in front of her,
stretching his high boots toward the fire. The bottle
came around again, and Mulder took his turn and
passed it on. Someone thought it would be a good joke
to offer the moonshine to Dana, but saw the warning
look on Mulder's face and changed his mind. 
  
As it grew dark, the men continued to drink and the
stories started, each more outlandish than the last.
His head began to feel heavy and he leaned it
against Dana's skirt, forgetting about the Irishman
and smiling contentedly as she ran her fingers
through his hair. "How much do I have to drink not to
be a Nancy-boy?" he whispered to her as everyone else
laughed uproariously at some vulgar joke.
  
"I think that might be enough," Dana answered
casually, but her eyes looked watchful. He made a
mental note: she didn't like him drinking. 
  
"You're tired. I'll fix you and Emily a place to
sleep," he said nonchalantly, getting up and waving
away the last swallow from the bottle. "Come with me.
I don't want you out here alone." 
  
No one seemed to notice their absence; the hour was
getting late and the voices were getting loud around
the campfire. 
  
Dana waited inside the door of the bunkhouse while
Mulder hung the canvas fabric of his Army tent from
the ceiling like a curtain, partially cordoning off
one corner of the cabin and creating some privacy for
her. His bedroll wasn't luxurious, but it was warm
and it would keep her off the dirt floor, and she
could cover up with his jacket too, if she needed to.
  
"If you need to go outside during the night, wake me
and I'll go with you," he instructed her, returning
from the carriage with a second blanket and the
basket Emily had been sleeping in earlier. "I mean,
don't go alone. I don't think any of these men would
hurt you, but they're drinking. With any luck,
they'll pass out around the campfire and we can be
gone before they wake up in the morning."
  
She nodded, putting Emily down in the basket, then
looking around. 

Mulder raised the candle, showing her their sparse
surroundings. The bunkhouse had four cots on the
opposite wall, one grimy window with a pane missing,
and not much else. It was a far cry from a suite in
Savannah's best hotel.
  
"Dana, I am sorry. This is not how or where I had in
mind to spend the night."
  
"I know," she answered softly. "Do I, do I undress?"
  
"I don't think you can stand to sleep in your
clothes."
  
Mulder stepped around to the other side of the
makeshift canvas curtain, near the door, and blew out
the candle so there was only the moonlight coming in
through the small window. He heard rustling as she
unfastened her dress and folded it. There was a deep,
relieved inhalation as the corset came off, then more
rustling for petticoats and shoes.  
  
"All right," she murmured, stepping from behind the
canvas curtain in only her old chemise.
  
He had the sudden, warm sensation she hadn't expected
to be sleeping alone.
  
"Do you want to nurse the baby?"
  
"She is asleep," Dana reminded him.
  
"All right." He cleared his throat. "Go lie down.
I'll be right here. To get to you, they'd have to
get past me, and that won't happen. Again, I don't
think anyone will bother us, but if you get scared,
just reach over and wake me. I'm a light sleeper." 
  
She moved away, and her chemise hissed against the
wool blanket as she lay down. Once she was still, he
unrolled his own blanket and stretched out,
cushioning his head with his forearm. The canvas
curtain hung between their feet and the cabin door,
and, as promised, he lay parallel to her, about a
yard away.
  
"Are you all right?" he asked into the darkness.
  
"I am not sleepy," she answered. "I do not think I 
can sleep."
  
"I know. I know it is stuffy and smelly in here, but
you don't need to be outside. Close your eyes and try
to rest, even if you don't sleep."
   
She exhaled, shifted, and there was silence for
several minutes. Dana had taken a nap during the day,
but Mulder hadn't, and he was dozing when she asked,
"Does it snow in Washington, D. C.?"
  
She pronounced it as three separate sentences:
'Washington.  Dee. Cee.'
  
"Yes, it snows," he answered softly.
  
"It does not snow in Savannah. I am not sure what to
expect."
  
"It snows, sometimes."  He paused, searching for
words. "But right now, the leaves are changing. The
trees are every shade of orange and scarlet and
yellow and even lilac. Winter will come soon, but
right now, DC is beautiful. The wind blows the leaves
across the yard and into heaps beside the road, and
when it rains, you can hear the raindrops landing on
them, sounding fat and lazy. Part of the house has a
tin roof, and you can lie in bed and listen to the
rain pattering down like little bells chiming, and
then running down and dripping off the eaves."
   
"That sounds nice."
  
"It is nice," he assured her. "I had almost forgotten
how nice my life was. The closets have their
skeletons, but I keep them locked, and I am the only
one with a key. I get up, put on my suit, go to work,
come home, enjoy my family, and go to sleep in a 
soft, warm bed. It is nice. That's what I meant to 
tell you this morning."
  
"What is your work?"
  
"Oh," he said, realizing he hadn't told her. "I have
investments, but mostly, I own a newspaper."
  
"Oh," she echoed, then startled as a glass bottle
broke outside and the campfire exploded as someone
tossed alcohol into it. A dozen male voices laughed
drunkenly, like wild dogs howling at the moon.
  
"They are just letting off steam," he promised. "Just
don't pay them any mind.  They have probably
forgotten we're even here."
  
She said nothing for so long he started to get
worried. 
  
"Are you all right?" he asked again, reaching out and
searching for her in the blackness. Finding her
shoulder, he asked, "Dana, are you all right?" 
  
As soon as he touched her, she was very still, not
flinching, but not relaxing, either. "I am fine," she
answered carefully, sounding like she was holding her
breath. 
  
"No, you aren't." He outlined her shoulder with his
hand, stroking lightly. "Relax," he said softly.
"It's all right. Those men aren't going to hurt you.
I'm not going to hurt you."
  
Her head nodded tensely.
  
"We're not married yet," he reminded her. 
  
"I was not sure if it mattered to you," she
whispered, still not looking at him.
  
"It does. Even then- The Irishman earlier: the word
he said in Gaelic that you could not translate?
Prostitute. The English word is 'prostitute.' That
is not what you are. Not here, Dana. Not like this,"
he promised. "Relax and go to sleep."
  
She nodded again.
  
"You can cry if you want," he murmured. "It is
allowed."
  
"I do not want to cry; I just want to be warm 
inside."
  
He didn't ask how she could possibly be cold when it
had been eighty degrees that afternoon and there was
a campfire blazing outside. He understood what it was
like to be cold. Not outside, but inside: to shiver
like he'd eaten too much ice cream. It was a
different kind of cold. 
  
"If I just lie beside you - and nothing else - would
you want that?  My- Melissa wanted that, sometimes."  

"Yes," she responded, barely audible.
  
Without another word, he got up, moved his blanket,
and lay down behind her, putting his hand on her
shoulder again but otherwise not touching her. "I'll
keep you warm. Go to sleep."
   
  *~*~*~*
  
End: Paracelsus III
  

Begin: Paracelsus IV
  
  *~*~*~*
  
Dear Melly,
  
I like to believe in true love - that each soul has
one perfect counterpoint - because I like to believe
in beautiful ideas. The world needs more of them,
especially now. I like to believe in destiny: that
each life has a purpose. After you died, I was
surprised - and angry - when the grass dared to
continue to grow and the clouds to move across the
sky, yet they do. The world continues to turn, so I
trust that Fate has a reason when it nudges me
through a door or around the bend of a country road.
  
She is more. That is a complete sentence, and as
clear as I can put it: she is more.  
  
No, I do not compare her to you because there is no
comparison. No one will ever take your place, or be
to me what you were. I struggle not to think 'If she
was Melly, she would...' because it is so unfair to
Dana.
  
That is her name, in case I hadn't told you before:
Dana Katherine Mulder.
  
She is more than I expected. I do not mean more
beautiful or attentive, though men turn to stare at
her just as they did you. I could not ask Dana to be
any more attentive to me, and I certainly do not mean
she is more obedient. Her hard head could put granite
to shame, and sometimes I think a good spanking might 
greatly improve her demeanor. She is just more, the 
way a six-horse team is more than a pair: stronger, 
more intense, more of a challenge.
  
And I am fond of her.
  
If you could see this letter, you could see the thin
place on the paper where I wrote and erased two-dozen
words besides 'am fond of,' trying to find ones that
fit. Women can choose hats easier than I can put into
words what I feel for Dana. When I think of love, I
think of the overwhelming, heart-wrenching emotion I
feel for you, and I do not feel that for her. I think
of Sarah, and I do not feel that for her, either. I
am comfortable her, as though I have married my good
friend, which I suppose I have.
  
If it is love, it is a lesser love, but it is still
quite pleasant. And pleasant is several steps above
being alone.   
  
Mulder
  
  *~*~*~*
   
'Expect me home by end of month stop bringing new
wife and baby stop make arrangements accordingly 
stop'
  
Fifteen words. He reread them one last time, then
handed the slip of paper to the clerk, who began
pecking away at the telegraph machine, sending the
electronic blips and bleeps through the miles of wire
between Savannah and Washington D.C.  
  
It was done, then. Even if they wanted to, it was too
late to back out. Entering into the holy covenant of
marriage was significantly less binding than telling
his housekeeper she was about to have a new baby to
fuss over.
  
A new wife, however, might get a cooler reception
from Poppy.
  
Dana was waiting beside the door, holding Emily and
trying to keep her eyes open. If she had slept at all
the previous night, Mulder hadn't noticed it. It had
taken the men around the campfire until dawn to pass
out, and the baby wanted to nurse every few hours;
he'd pretended to be asleep so he couldn't notice
that, either.  
  
When they'd reached Savannah, Dana had seen what the
Army - his Army - had done to the city she'd briefly
called home, and what public reaction was to a
Federal officer looking to marry a Confederate widow.
General Sherman's troops had wintered there, and the
city looked like an elegant lady who had been dragged
through the mud: disoriented, bedraggled, and
incensed, but still a lady. She still had her
standards: anyone in a blue uniform was the enemy,
and anyone giving quarter to the enemy was a
traitor. It didn't matter that Dana was less of a
southerner than Mulder; New York had been a free
state, whereas Washington DC had allowed slavery.
Two ministers had politely declined to perform the
ceremony, three had impolitely declined, and one had
suggested Mulder get out of his church before he had
time to load his shotgun.
  
He was beginning to think Dana was either the most
tolerant woman on the planet, or the most stubborn.
  
"Think of this as a great adventure," he said
lightly, taking the baby and trying to get her to
smile. "A quest."
  
"A quest," she echoed softly.
  
"Dana, are you all right?" he asked for the hundredth
time. "This is so much, so quickly. Are you sure?"
  
She inhaled, opened her eyes a little wider, and
forced a smile, nodding.
  
"Please don't do that. I hate falseness. Please don't
pretend what you don't feel."
  
"I am sorry," she apologized.
  
"If you want to wait, or if you've changed your mind,
tell me. If it's a matter of money - I'm in debt to
you for months of room and board. You could collect
and take a grand tour of Europe," he said, still 
trying unsuccessfully to get a genuine smile. "Above 
all, you are my friend, Dana. I won't have you do
something you don't want to do. I'll take you
anywhere you want to go and I'll make sure you and
the baby are well taken care of once you get there.
Would you want to go to your mother's, maybe? After
Washington, this ship goes on to New York; from
there, I can even put you on a boat for Ireland, if
you want."
  
"I want to go with you, if you want me."
  
It was the longest sentence he'd heard from her all
day.  
  
"I do," he responded softly, honestly.
  
He waited, but she didn't say anything else.  
  
"All right, then." He leaned down, kissing her
lightly on the lips, and felt her mouth move
belatedly in response. He made a conscientious effort
to touch her often, and she made a conscientious
effort to respond, although she frequently seemed
surprised, as though she'd momentarily forgotten whom
he was or why he was there.
  
The telegraph clerk cleared his throat in
disapproval, and Dana pulled back, tasting her lips.
  
The ship's whistle blew, screaming impatiently at the
sky. On the other side of the window, men with broad
shoulders and strong backs carried trunks and cargo
up the gangplanks, feeding the ships like insects
swarming a hive. Mulder put his hand on Dana's back,
escorting her out of the telegraph office and across
the bustling dock.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
One nice thing about being a man: there wasn't much
to spruce up. If he was clean, combed, shaved, and
buttoned, he was ready. Except for the green tint
beginning to creep into his face as the ship cut
through the waves, he was as presentable as he was
going to get.
  
Dana was standing at the dresser, staring at her
reflection in the bedroom mirror. She turned her head
from side to side, watching herself.
  
"I look so shabby," she commented, running her hands
over her black dress. It was in decent condition,
probably from lack of wear, but at least five years
out of fashion.  She must have put aside one good
dress at the beginning of the war, and Dana would
choose basic black silk: suitable for church,
mourning, and, in a pinch, an evening wedding. The
too-tight bodice ended in the deep V, and the skirt
flared in a circle, meant to be worn with a hoop,
though she wasn't wearing one. The shoulders sloped
into full sleeves that gathered below her elbows.
Instead of the elaborate, looping styles popular
before the war, her hair was parted in the middle and
gathered in a simple knot at the base of her head.
The overall silhouette was of a wilting flower,
which had been appropriate in 1860. "I did not
realize how shabby."
  
"The world is shabby; we just blend in," he answered,
coming up behind her and putting his hands on her
shoulders. "You look fine."
  
She frowned at her reflection, then picked up the
brush and started pulling out hairpins, showing every
sign of starting over. It was a feminine routine he'd
encountered before, and it never ended well. He
should have known. Whenever a woman asked how she
looked, the proper answer was 'beautiful'; any
further comments required tact and were sure to get
him in trouble. Unfortunately, he'd opted for 'fine'. 
  
"You look beautiful," he added belatedly, trying to
make amends. "Anyway, who cares how you look?"
  
She turned to stare at him, her lower lip sticking
out a bit and her forehead creased, then started
brushing out her long hair.
  
"Dana, considering you've been living hand-to-mouth,
spent last night in a shack, and just had a baby-"
  
"Mr. Mulder, any charm you have, you must have gotten
at a discount."
  
He would have laughed, but his head hurt. "I'm not
making it any better, am I?"
  
"No." She paused, dissatisfied with the woman in the
mirror. "And neither am I."
  
"The ladies I saw on the street today had their hair
kind of sitting atop their heads." He gathered her
auburn mane into a loose ponytail at her crown,
trying to demonstrate. It occurred to him she'd seen
the same women on the street and he could have just
told her, but this was more pleasant. "Smooth on the
sides, then some curls, with a stupid little hat on
top." 
  
"I do not have a stupid little hat, Mr. Mulder."
  
Untangling his fingers, he handed her a hairpin, then
promised, "The next time the ship docks, I'll buy you
new dresses and a stupid little hat so you'll be the
height of fashion. Until then, just do the best you
can."
  
There was a soft knock at the door of their
stateroom, and Mulder opened it to find the captain
of the ship looking dignified with his matching white
uniform and whiskers.
  
"Thank you," Mulder told him as they shook hands in
the foyer. "I appreciate you taking the time to do
this. Captain, this is Mrs. Dana Waterston," he
introduced as she appeared from the bedroom. "And
this is Emily," he added, gesturing to the cradle
beside the sofa. "Who we're hoping will sleep through
this."  
  
One of the maids had offered to watch Emily for a
little bit, and Dana had reluctantly agreed, provided
the baby didn't wake up. Although there were probably
a dozen women in steerage class eager to earn a few
dollars as a wet nurse, Mulder hadn't worked up to
broaching that subject. He should put his foot down
and insist Dana get some rest, but she liked having
Emily close, and to be honest, so did he.
  
"It's always nice to see a young couple so in love,"
the captain answered tactfully. "I haven't married
anyone in a long time, but I think I remember how the
ceremony goes."
  
"We've done it before," Mulder offered helpfully, and
earned an odd look from the captain.
  
"You're wearing wedding rings. Did you want to use
those?"
  
"Oh, uh, no. No, I don't think so. I'll get new ones
the next time the ship docks. Is that all right?"
  
Not only were both he and Dana wearing wedding bands,
they wore them on their left hands, not their right
as was customary for a widow or widower.
  
"It's fine." The captain's eyes were indulgent, and
he seemed amused at their disarray. "Well then, I'll
be on deck whenever you're ready. Take your time."
He closed the door, leaving them alone in the
opulent rooms.
  
Mulder exhaled, trying not to fidget, and blaming his
rebellious stomach on the early stages of
seasickness. "The captain's ready," he informed her
needlessly.
  
Dana nodded, frowning in concentration as she tried
to work her wedding ring off her finger.      
  
After hesitating a heartbeat, Mulder did the same,
pausing to read the worn Latin inscription inside.
Amorem meum tibi semper dabo; in English, 'I will
give you my love always.'  
Succeeding, she rubbed the pale, indented skin on her
finger, then handed the band to him for safekeeping.
He dropped both rings in his pocket without comment.  
  
"So I'll need to buy wedding bands, dresses, and a
stupid little hat at the next port," he listed
nervously. "Anything else?" 
  
She nodded no, smiling gently.
  
"The captain's ready," he repeated, offering his
hand. 
  
  *~*~*~*
  
"You understand that we're not lying to your mother,"
his father had explained, tying their horses to the
hitching post outside the saloon. "We're just not
mentioning this. You stopped by my office after your
lessons, and then we made it home a little late for
dinner. We just won't mention any stops in between.
Do you understand, Fox?"
   
Mulder, with all the hero worship a boy had for his
father, had nodded. To him, it was a nefarious
adventure into the darker side of life, and he would
have given his left arm to do something nefarious
with his proper father. "I won't tell her," he
answered earnestly.
  
The uniformed doorman had opened the ornate doors to
a whole new world, and he'd followed his father
inside, trying not to look as out of place as he
felt. He remembered to take off his hat, and then
tugged nervously at his vest, pulling it smooth. His
hair was usually a lost cause, but he ran his fingers
through it anyway.
  
Bill Mulder had been well-liked, so it took them
several minutes of hand shaking and head nodding to
reach the crowded bar, where the barkeep greeted them
with, "What will it be, Senator?"
  
"Whiskey: two." He tapped the bar with his index
fingers as he slid onto a padded stool.  
  
It was an elegant establishment near the Capitol,
specializing in catering to the tastes of DC's
politicians and wealthy businessmen. Mulder had
looked around, taking in the mirrors, the heavy
chandeliers, and, across the room, the pretty girls
wearing only pantalets, chemises, corsets, and
ridiculously high-heeled slippers leaning over the
railing of the balcony. The women flirting with the
men downstairs were flashily dressed, some with rouge
and face powder, but the ones upstairs were barely
dressed at all.  
  
"Sorry, son," his father said in an amused tone. "I'm
not quite that traditional.  I'll teach you to drink,
but let's put that off for another birthday or two.
So how does it feel to be sixteen? Do you like your
present?"
  
"It's wonderful," he responded dutifully, still
watching the prostitutes upstairs. He'd walked past
fast women on the street, and he knew brothels
existed, but gentlemen in polite company pretended
they didn't see such things, just as they didn't see 
a woman's figure when she was about to have a baby, 
or that Negro housemaids mysteriously had mulatto
children resembling their white owners. It was a
society skilled at not noticing.
  
One of the upstairs doors opened and Jack Kavanaugh
stumbled out, pausing for a farewell kiss from a girl
who looked to be about thirteen or fourteen. His
father didn't comment, so Mulder swallowed hard, then
shifted his attention back to the bar as the
bartender filled two shot glasses.
  
"Drink it all at once. Just tilt your head back and
swallow," his father instructed, picking up his own
glass.
  
Mulder did as he was told, then wondered how anyone
could find this a pleasurable habit as he tried to
get air into his lungs again. No wonder the Indians
called it firewater.
  
"Another, Senator?" the bartender asked, holding the
bottle ready.
  
"I'll have brandy. What do you want, Fox?"
  
"Apple cider?" he said, not seeing anything else he
considered palatable listed on the sign posted over
the bar.    
  
"And an apple cider," his father repeated, then
quietly teased his son, "What? You aren't having
another?"  

"Not unless you say I have to, sir," Mulder had
replied, noticing his head felt funny and his nose
was getting tingly. This might be what being drunk
felt like; he wasn't sure. They had wine with dinner
and often beer if he had lunch with his father, but
whiskey was different. It was illicit, like the women
upstairs.   
  
"Good boy." He hesitated in what Mulder would realize
years later, was indecision.  As a child, he'd
thought his father was omnipotent, which was an easy
assumption to make when one's father was a
Massachusetts politician. "You are a good boy, Fox.
Whatever happened with Sarah, that was her father's
fault and mine, not yours. You and Sarah learned to
crawl together and we just let the two of you run
wild, thinking you were just children. Obviously, we
shouldn't have."
  
"I didn't do anything to Sarah," Mulder said, his
tongue feeling thick. "Sir," he added respectfully.  
  
"All right," his father responded, not arguing.  
  
For months, Sarah Kavanaugh's death had been the most
covertly discussed event in DC. Her father,
Representative Kavanaugh of Tennessee, said she'd
died of cholera. Popular gossip insisted that hadn't
been the case - that she'd miscarried and bled to
death - and cast a curious eye at Senator Mulder's
son: Sarah's friend and, though the engagement hadn't
been announced formally, her fiance. 
     
"I didn't," Mulder insisted, staring at Kavanaugh as
he stumbled down the steps and to the opposite end of
the bar. Spotting Mulder and his father, he slowly
made his way across the noisy saloon, bringing a
whiskey bottle with him.  
  
When Congress was in session, the Kavanaughs and the
Mulders were neighbors. Mrs. Kavanaugh had died when
the girls were small, and Sarah and Melissa often
fled to the Mulders' house, sleeping in a spare
bedroom until their father sobered up and came to
collect them. 'Poor Jack Kavanaugh never got over his
wife's death, bless his heart,' the ladies had said
for a decade, but now 'Poor Jack Kavanaugh drinks to
forget his oldest daughter's tragic death, bless his
heart.' In the House of Representatives, Poor Jack
Kavanaugh was a political legend, a bastion of the
community for reasons no one, if pressed, could seem
to remember anymore.
  
"The ill wind which blows no man to good," Bill
Mulder quoted, watching Kavanaugh approaching. "I
don't like that man, Fox," he said quietly, which had
surprised Mulder. While he'd debate a bill hotly for
weeks, his father seldom voiced a negative opinion
about his fellow man. It made Mulder feel as if he'd
been taken into his confidence. "I can't quite put my
finger on it, but I don't. Even though it would have
been a good match, I'm glad he isn't going to be your
father-in-law."
  
"I do want to be married," Mulder said suddenly,
causing his father to put down his brandy snifter and
raise his eyebrows. 
  
"Excuse me?"
  
"I want to be married right now."
  
"Don't be ridiculous, son. You can't go to West Point
if you're married."
  
"I don't want to go to West Point. I don't want to go
in the military. I didn't know how to tell you. I
thought you'd be disappointed."
  
"No, I'm not disappointed. Just surprised. Well-" His
father picked up his glass again, gently tilting the
golden liquid. "You could have mentioned it before I
bought you all those uniforms. So you want to go to
Harvard, then?"
  
"No. I don't want to be a lawyer. And I don't want to
be a politician. I'm proud of you. I know you do
wonderful things in Congress, but I don't think I
want to do that. I want to marry Melly. Right now." 
  
"Melly who? Sarah's sister Melly? Melissa Kavanaugh?"
he said in disbelief. "Right now? Calm down, son.
There's smoke coming out of your ears. I thought you
were looking forward to going off to school."
  
"I am, but I want to marry Melly, too."     
  
"Fine, you want to marry Melissa Kavanaugh.  That's
an, uh, interesting idea. Let me think about it. For
now, you'll go to school, see the world a little, and
then, if you still want to-" There was a long,
uncomfortable pause while feet shifted and glasses
sloshed restlessly. "Why her? I thought Melly annoyed
you. You were always saying Sarah's little sister a
pest, but I suppose you aren't nine any longer. They
do look alike. Does she remind you of Sarah?"
  
"Yes. No," he corrected immediately. "I don't want to
wait four years. I want to marry her now. Please,
Father; you can't say no."
  
"I can say no," his father responded sternly. "And I
am. Stop this foolishness, Fox. You're too young, and
I think you're just lonely and nervous about leaving
for school. I know you miss Sarah..." Bill Mulder
hesitated again, his voice softening. "I know you
miss her very much. It's been months now, and you
still seem so lost. It worries your mother. I've been
thinking about it and I've decided... Fox, you are
sixteen now. Kavanaugh's colored girl, Poppy: she
looks like Sarah, too, a great deal. I can
arrange..." His father stopped and swallowed
nervously. "Fox, I've thought about it, and if it
would make you feel better, I can arrange to have her
come to work for us."
  
Mulder shook his head no, understanding what his
father was offering, but not wanting it.
  
"All right," Bill Mulder said gently. "Then I'll go
with you to Harvard, get you settled in; it will be
fine. It will be a good change of scenery. And
Melissa- Well, in a few years, we'll see. I think
you'll grow out of this notion."
  
Kavanaugh was halfway down the bar, pausing to shake
hands and have a shot of whiskey with a businessman.
  
"Melly's going to have a baby," Mulder said suddenly. 
  
Bill Mulder's face fell, and he looked so
disappointed that his son cowered. Silent 'where did
I go wrong,' self-incrimination flashed in his eyes,
but he only said, "Oh, Fox. Are you sure?"
  
Mulder nodded miserably. "We want to get married,
Father," he pleaded. "Please. I'll go to school
wherever you want if Melly and I can get married, and
if she can stay with you and Mother while I'm at
school."
  
"Fox- Son, even if she is, are you sure you want to
spend your life taking care of this girl? Yes, she's
beautiful, and she seems sweet, but she's also- She's
delicate. She's not very bright, even for a woman.
Sarah was perfect for you; she kept you in line,
kept those wild ideas of yours balanced. She was like
a curb bit. But Melissa... Fox, sometimes I look in
her eyes and there's no life there."
  
"That's because Melly's the pretty one," he'd
responded hesitantly. "And now Sarah's gone."
  
"I don't understa-"
  
"Happy birthday, boy!" Kavanaugh announced loudly,
slinging his arm around Mulder's shoulders and making
him jump. "Fourteen, right? Or fifteen? Good to see
you're finally teaching this boy some propriety,
Bill," he said to Mulder's father, then added in a
stage whisper, nodding to the girls upstairs, "Though
it's a little late. See boy: that's where your prick
goes. Not my daughter."
  
"He's drunk, Fox," he heard his father's voice say as
the world went red. "Let me handle it."
  
Working on eight months of hurt over Sarah's death,
his first drink of hard liquor, and the lithe grace
of an angry young man, Mulder jerked away, slid off
the bar stool, and, with one punch, knocked Kavanaugh
sprawling across the polished wooden floor. "Yours
doesn't go in your daughter, either," Mulder hissed
through clenched teeth. "You son of a bitch!"
  
Bill Mulder had stared at his son, his mouth agape
and his brandy snifter forgotten in his hand.
  
The drinking and flirting and piano playing had
paused, taken note of the scene at the end of the
bar, and then continued at the same frantic, hollow
pace.
  
"You can't save the world, Fox," his father had said
a few minutes later, folding his arms as he leaned
against the hitching post outside the saloon. "Sarah
would have told you that."
  
"Yes, she would have," he had agreed. "But she'd also
walk along the shore at low tide and throw the
stranded starfish back into the ocean. She said she
was saving the ones she could." 
  
"Why didn't you tell me the truth about Sarah?"  
  
"She never told me. I didn't know what was happening
until after- Until after she died. I had no idea."    
  
"Fox, are you certain - very certain - that this
child Melissa is carrying is yours?"
  
Mulder took a deep breath, biting at his lower lip
before he nodded.
  
"All right; let's head home. We have to tell your
mother. Do you realize she's going to be a
grandmother at thirty-three? I won't hear the end of
that for years."   
   
"Sir," he said uncertainly, as they mounted their
horses. "I am sorry."
  
"It's done," his father had said. "You've made your
decision. I hope and pray it turns out the way you
want it to." His smiled slightly, trying to cover his
concern. "Congratulations: you're going to be a
father. You're a little young for it, but I think
you'll do a good job." 
  
"I have a good example."
  
Bill Mulder had put on his hat - he was the only man
in the world who could ride a horse at a trot without
his top hat falling off - and smiled again, his eyes
kinder. He'd been thirty-six; not much older than
Mulder had been the year Melly and his father had
died and Samuel had disappeared. "Now you're just
flattering me."

"Can Melly stay with us tonight?"
  
"Oh, for God's sake, Fox!" He'd sighed, turning his
horse around. "Fine. She can stay. In her and Sarah's
old room. Far, far from you. Her father isn't going
to wake up until this baby's walking, anyway. And
son," he'd added, seeming unsure if he should say
something or not.
  
"Sir?"
  
"That was a nice punch, but he deserved worse."
   
  *~*~*~*
  
As long as he didn't move or breathe, he was only in
moderate agony. His brain seemed to have absorbed
several gallons of water, so it squished whenever he
tried to move his head. His stomach - the miserable
battlefield between his ribs and hips - felt like it
had revolted and then been beaten into submission
with a hammer.
  
A cold, wet cloth passed over his forehead, then
his cheeks as he opened his eyes.
  
"You were smiling," Dana said quietly, turning away
to re-wet the washcloth. She was wearing her white
chemise, and her hair hung over her shoulder in a
long, thick braid. The clock indicated it was after
four in the morning; she'd probably just finished
feeding Emily. "In your sleep: you were smiling.
Were you dreaming of Melissa?"
  
"My father," he rasped, his lips dry. The lamp beside
the bed burned low, barely illuminating the ornate
mahogany furniture of their stateroom. He rubbed the
sleep from his eyes, then took a careful, shaky
breath he immediately regretted. "I was dreaming of
my father."
  
She turned away again, and this time returned with a
cup of warm liquid that she held to his lips. 
  
"Ginger tea," Dana explained when he tried to pull
away. "It will help your stomach."
  
"That's not tea; that's horrible." He scooted up on
the pillows so he wasn't completely at her mercy, and
took the cup from her before she tried to make him
drink it again.  
  
His chest was bare, as were his feet underneath the
blankets, though he didn't remember her undressing
him. It seemed the only thing less romantic than the
brief engagement and the hasty wedding was the
wedding night.
  
"So, Mr. Mulder: you get seasick," she said gently.
"When I promised 'in sickness and in health,' I did
not know I would be tested so soon."
  
He frowned, then dipped his fingertips in his tea and
flicked them at her. She wiped the drops off, then
went back to bathing him, running the washcloth over
his shoulders. She paused, examining the small scar
from the minie ball, then went on. He'd forgotten: as
familiar as he was with her body, after Emily's birth
and his more recent hallway-lurking, she was a
stranger to his.
  
"Nice," he mumbled, setting the cup aside and
relaxing.  Not much felt good, but at least that
didn't feel worse.
  
"The ship's doctor was here. He said you should drink
the tea, and to go for a walk on deck in the morning.
He said it would just make you sicker if you stay
inside."
  
"I'll take that under advisement," he murmured,
closing his eyes. The cloth passed over his eyelids,
then down the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry, Dana."
  
"Why are you sorry?"  
  
He didn't answer.
  
"Tell me about your dream," she said quietly. 
  
"Why?" he mumbled.
  
Water swished in the basin, then splashed and dripped
as she wrung out the washcloth. She pushed the sheet
down, bathing his chest, this time tracing the raised
scar from a rebel bayonet.  
  
He remembered lying under the merciless sun in
Tennessee, listening to flies and death buzzing
around him. The grass had been dry, the dirt parched.
They'd beaten the Confederates that day - butchered
the Confederates, actually - so the grass field was
littered with gray-clad bodies and splotched dark red
with blood. He remembered thinking he was near the
Kavanaugh's home at Missionary Ridge, and wasn't
surprised to see Sarah walking toward him in a white
dress, trailing her hands along the tops of the dead
weeds. She'd been dead for more than a decade, he
realized, and if he was seeing her, he was dead, too,
and there would be no one to take care of Melly and
Samuel. Sarah must have realized that as well,
because she shook her head and turned away, silently
disappearing into the trees at the edge of the field. 
His next memory was of waking up in a hospital a
week later.
  
"I was dreaming of the day I told him he was going to
be a grandfather. He was worried: for me, for Melly,
but when he saw Samuel, for the next thirteen years,
his friends crossed the street when they saw him
coming so he couldn't buttonhole them with stories of
his remarkably talented, sinfully handsome grandson."
  
"You told the river men your father died."
  
"Yes, he died. It was very sudden. He was a senator,
and he was trying to negotiate the surrender of
Richmond. The doctors think it was his heart, but
they don't really know. His heart had never troubled
him before. It happened a few months after Melly...
After Melly passed away."
  
He tilted his head from side to side as she washed
his neck, deciding the pleasant coolness outweighed
the pain of moving.
  
"How did Melissa die?" she whispered.
  
Several seconds passed before he responded, "It was
an accident. She was not well. I was supposed to be
watching her and I wasn't. I was tired and I fell
asleep. Samuel found her. Why did it bother you last
night: when I was drinking with those men around the
fire?"
  
Water swished and splashed again. "I am not sure it
is proper to discuss one husband with another," she
answered slowly.
  
"Oh," he responded, shifting painfully to his side
and scooting back on the mattress. "Come to bed. Get
some sleep."
  
She put the basin aside, then folded the blankets
back, making a place.
  
"Try not to jiggle. Or be warm. Or breathe," he
requested as she blew out the lamp.
  
  *~*~*~* 
  
Women were soft; he'd almost forgotten.
   
He was accustomed to touching them; all gentlemen
were: lifting them into or out of a buggy, helping a
lady who had fainted, or just being a solicitous
escort, but that was through the merciless whalebone
of a corset, and layers of hoops and petticoats. In
their natural state, like asleep beside him, women
were infinitely soft.
  
His hand rested comfortably in the valley of Dana's
waist as he opened his eyes, wondering what had
awakened him. The coal-fed engines droned on, pushing
the ship through the darkness. A lamp flickered
across the room, casting long, yellow shadows on the
wall behind it. Dana's back fitted nicely against his
front, and her skin, through her nightgown, was warm
under his fingertips. Content, Mulder was about to go
back to sleep when Emily mewed again: not crying, but
announcing she was up and thinking of a late-night
snack.
  
"Baby," he mumbled to Dana, who didn't budge. He
jostled her gently. "Dana, the baby wants you."
  
She said something unintelligible in Gaelic and
cuddled against him as if she planned to hibernate
there until spring.   
  
Emily reiterated her request, stressing its urgency.
     
After three days, the seasickness had subsided to the
point that he no longer dreaded moving, he just
didn't look forward to it. Mulder pushed up on his
elbow, checking that the room stayed level, then
swung his bare feet over the side of the bed.  
  
He'd probably owned a nightshirt at some point in
this life, but he didn't now, and he wasn't likely to
in the future. He did own and usually slept in
undershirts: short-sleeve cotton for summer and long
sleeved wool for winter, but had abandoned both two
Georgian Augusts ago. What remained of his sleeping
attire were the bottoms; in this instance, the loose
fitting, cream-colored summer flannels with a row of
tiny buttons at the fly. The form-fitting wool
drawers he wore in winter were the same way: anything
a man might need to remove his underwear to do, with
all those buttons, he'd better be able to wait a
minute to do it.
  
He rubbed his arms briskly against the onslaught of
cool air, and leaned over the cradle. "You do realize
it's midnight, don't you?" he asked Emily, who
appeared unashamed.  
  
There was a blanket spread over the floor beside the
cradle, and he laid her on it, giving her his finger
to hold while he got everything ready. After a few
tries, he had a dry diaper folded and pinned so all
the important parts were covered; not an easy trick
with a baby who'd discovered she could roll over and
escape. First class maids were a wonderful thing, so
he left the wet diaper for the laundress to deal with
and settled Emily against his shoulder, one hand on
her head and the other on her dry behind.
  
"Would you consider just going back to sleep for
Daddy?" he checked, rubbing her back encouragingly.
"Let your mother rest a little?"
  
Emily snuggled against him, radiating baby-heat, and
let Mulder rock and murmur to her for several minutes
before she decided, no, that wouldn't do after all.
  
He sat on the edge of the bed, watching Dana, then
put his hand on her shoulder. "Baby," he whispered,
hating to wake her. "Dana: the baby."
  
"Yes?" she finally mumbled, stretching and yawning.
 She rubbed her eyes, blinking at him as she sat up.
"What is it?  Is something wrong, Mr. Mulder?"
  
"The baby," he repeated with an amused smile. She
always woke up like a kitten: happy to be here, but
unsure exactly where here was. Small words worked
best. He pushed a loose strand of hair back from her
face, then brushed his thumb along her jawbone.
"Dana, the baby," he whispered.
  
She blinked at him again, trying to focus her eyes,
then caressed his face in return and laid back down,
watching him and waiting.  

"Oh. Dana, no. The baby. Emily. She's hungry."
  
"Oh." She sat up again quickly, finally noticing the
infant squirming against his bare chest. "Oh," she
repeated sheepishly, reaching for her daughter. "All
right; I will feed her. Thank you for telling me."
  
"You are welcome," he answered very politely for a
man wearing only his drawers. 
  
Mulder lay down, tucking his bare feet under the
blankets and crossing his arms across his bare chest.
As he waited for sleep to come, he watched Dana
gather up a spare blanket, preparing to take Emily to
the next room to nurse her in private.
  
"Dana," he called as she started to leave, his voice
carefully casual. "It's warmer in here."
  
"Yes," she agreed, her response just as neutral.  It
was a large bedroom with a sofa and several chairs,
but no wall or screen to provide privacy.
  
"I'm going back to sleep. It's dark. There's no sense
in you and the baby being cold or uncomfortable."
  
"You need to rest. I would not want to disturb you."
  
"You won't."
  
In silent invitation, he scooted back a few inches so
he was in the middle of the broad mattress, leaving
ample space for her in front of him. He pushed up on
one elbow, ignoring the protest from his stomach as
he studied her and waited.
  
"You brought her to bed last night to bed to feed
her," he reminded her.
  
"I thought you were asleep when I did that. Were you
just pretending, Mr. Mulder?"
  
"Perhaps I woke up and peeked," he admitted tiredly.
  
"And will you be peeking again?" she asked, a note of
embarrassed amusement in her voice.
  
"I can't promise either way. Stop shivering, bring
the baby, and come back to bed, Dana."
  
After a few seconds, the mattress dipped as she sat
down, then laid down with the baby in front of her
and her back to Mulder. A ribbon whispered as she
slowly untied the top of her chemise, baring one
breast just enough for the baby to nurse. In the dim
light, he could make out Emily's tiny hand resting on
Dana's breast, and her glistening eyes looking up at
her mother as she nursed.
  
"Sammy used to do that," Mulder said softly. "With
his hand. When he was a baby."
  
Her profile just smiled and nodded.
  
He scooted closer to Dana, pulled the blanket up to
their waists, and pillowed his head on his folded
right arm. With his left hand, he traced down her
shoulder, then along her arm until his hand covered
hers on Emily.
  
The ship rocked slightly as it cut through the waves
along the east coast, carrying them home. Once he was
still again, the ache in his gut faded, leaving
behind a weak, wrung-out feeling. With his eyes
closed, he could hear the water crashing against the
hull and the baby's mouth moving against Dana's
breast. Dana's bottom was warm and round against his
pelvis, causing a pleasant sensation in his belly and
groin - not an arousal, really, just a comforting
reminder that he wasn't dead.
  
Soon, he told himself.  Home, intimacy, normalcy.  
  
Soon.
  
As promised, he slept.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
As much as people liked to think they were enigmas,
they really weren't. What they owned, how they
conducted themselves, all said much more about them
than they realized. It was just a matter of taking
time and caring enough to notice.
  
Mulder toyed with the cuff of his new sweater,
considering.
  
Still too sick to go shopping himself, he'd sent Dana
ashore with one of the ship's officers. It wasn't an
optimal solution, but she desperately needed some new
dresses, and he craved anything that wasn't a cavalry
uniform. She'd returned with wedding bands, clothing
for him and the baby, and two dresses: both stylish,
both properly-fitting and flattering, and both jet
black.
  
He was still analyzing her choices.  
  
She was welcome to wear whatever she wanted, but it
seemed odd to mourn one husband while honeymooning
with another. Maybe she wore black for other men
she'd lost: her father and brothers. Maybe because
black was versatile and serviceable and she wasn't
aware Melly had kept the dressmakers in business;
Mulder had better things to do than scrutinize and
complain about his wife's expenses. Maybe those
dresses had been discounted, or all the stores had.
Or maybe Dana just liked black.
  
With many formerly wealthy southern families selling
off heirlooms, fine jewelry was plentiful, and the
northern vultures coming south to feed looked like
they'd been dipped in gold batter and then floured in
diamonds. He'd told her to pick whatever she wanted,
and Dana had chosen two plain wedding bands, almost
identical to the ones they replaced. She'd returned
to the ship wearing hers, but his new ring had been
in a box on the dresser this morning.
  
He hadn't quite figured her out yet, but he was
working on it. He was in charge of this dance and he
knew the steps, but part of being a good dancer was
knowing his partner.  
  
He knew she didn't like tomatoes. Not fresh, not
stewed, not in sauces. If Dana was in charge, they
probably wouldn't even be permitted to grow, let
alone be eaten.
  
He knew she liked fine things against her skin:
underclothes, nightgowns - even the navy blue sweater
and tan trousers she'd selected for him were petal
soft. There was nothing frilly or fru-fru about her
clothing, but neither was she severe. Her taste was
elegant and understated; it was expensive, but it
wasn't designed to specifically look like it was
expensive.
  
She only pretended to dislike his jokes, but that was
his opinion, and his sense of humor hadn't been at
its best in the last few days.  
  
Unlike Melly, who would either cower or burst into
tears if he raised his voice, Dana either ignored his
black moods and sarcasm, or seemed amused, which was
discomforting.
   
She liked sleeping beside him at night, and he liked
her there. Their berth had several bedrooms; she
could have designated his as the sick room and slept
elsewhere, if she had wanted. Emily's cradle started
out in the parlor and each night crept closer to
their bed until the baby was sleeping a few feet from
them, and Mulder had yet to object. The subject of a
wet nurse had also yet to be raised, and there had
been no further midnight trips into the next room to
feed the baby in private.
  
She had been comfortable caring for him while he was
ill, unlike some women who thought of men's bodies as
boorish or dirty. Victorian morals being what they
were, many girls were raised to be something past
prudish, and men were taught to expect their wives to
be good mothers, but less-than-enthusiastic bedmates.
For ladies, marital relations were a weekly chore:
like laundry, but less pleasurable. If a gentleman
wanted passion, or even to break a sweat in bed, he
should look elsewhere rather than embarrass his wife.
Dana seemed to have been raised with the middle-
class notion men were touchable, and he was secretly
glad of it.
  
He knew Dana thought more than she said, but what she
said was worth listening to.
  
He couldn't say for certain she was happy, but she
didn't seem unhappy, and that was a start.
  
When he kissed her, she kissed back.
  
He watched Dana walking across the deck toward him,
her skirt and the blanket covering the baby
fluttering in the breeze. She'd mastered walking on a
ship and did it gracefully; he preferred to sit and
not press his luck. Not recognizing him at first, she
started to pass, taking Emily back to their rooms,
then stopped and looked puzzled. She's never seen him
out of uniform, and it took a moment for her to
figure out who he was.
   
He held out a white silk flower to her, twirling the
wire stem between his fingertips so the petals spun.
  
"For me?" she asked.

"I stole it off an old lady's hat," he told her, 
gesturing for her to sit down on the deck chair next 
to his. "She'll never miss it."
  
She smiled and sat, setting Emily on her lap so she
could watch the ocean. "How do you feel? Better?"
  
"I feel less bad."  
  
"Good."
  
"No, not good; just less bad."
  
She wrinkled her forehead, not quite following that.
He grinned and reached for her hand.   
  
"You found your ring," she observed. "Is it all
right?"
  
"Um-hum." Mulder propped his boots up on a wooden
footstool and let their entwined fingers rest on his
thigh, enjoying the salty wind on his face. It was
definitely less bad.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
It sounded odd to say he hadn't talked with a woman
in fifteen years, but he almost hadn't. Not really
talked. He'd exchanged information, he'd filled
silence, and he'd talked to, but he'd seldom talked
with a woman. 
  
He and Sarah used to talk about everything. When they
were five, they'd sneaked up to the hayloft, stripped
naked, and examined the differences between
Methodists and Presbyterians. When they were nine,
they'd sat on the limb of the maple tree in his
backyard and decided to kiss each other, just to see
what all the fuss was about. Not much, they concluded
at the time, later to revise their opinion. At
eleven, she'd persuaded him not to run away and join
the circus, pointing out that he'd miss dinner: roast
beef with carrots and new potatoes. And when they
were fifteen, two months before she'd died, they'd
been bent over their books in the Mulders' kitchen,
studying, when he'd suddenly asked Sarah if she loved
him. 'How could I not?' she'd replied calmly, then
returned to her Latin verbs without batting an eye.
  
Those memories seemed like they belonged to a
different person now: a brother, an old friend, or a
cousin, maybe. A man he shared a common background
with, but not Mulder. Just as he set aside and
guarded the husband he'd been to Melly, he'd packed
away the boy he'd been to Sarah and pushed it far
into the attic of his heart.
  
There was nothing remarkable about the story of
Dana's life except that it was hers, and that he
wanted to hear it. She didn't discuss Dr. Waterston,
but he didn't expect her to. It was her memories of
her childhood in Ireland, of her family, that
interested him, and kept them talking late into the
night. As the hours passed, shoes were discarded and
top buttons loosened until they were as comfortable
as two people were allowed to be and still be decent. 
  
"Were you caught?" he asked as she started to pour
him another cup of that repulsive ginger tea.  She
seemed to think the stuff had medicinal properties,
which it did: it made him gag. "Don't bother; I won't
drink it."
  
"I can put sugar in it."
  
"You do that. Put sugar in it, leave out the ginger,
and add some tea leaves, and then I'll drink it."
  
She put the teapot down on the silver tray, leaving
the cup unfilled.
  
"Did you get caught?" he asked again, leaning back on
the sofa and crossing his long legs casually at the
ankle. "Throwing rotten apples?" 
  
"No. My brothers got whippings, but they were too
embarrassed to admit their apples had not hit anyone
and mine had. It caught our neighbor right in the
back of his head, and then I ducked back behind the
tree, so when he turned around, all he saw were Bill
and Charlie standing in the orchard with apples in
their hands. They took a whipping rather than admit
they had missed, and their baby sister had not.  I
think my father suspected, though." She smiled sadly,
looking past him and into distant memory. "That does
not seem like so long ago."
  
"Would you like me to check with the Navy and see-" 
  
"No," she answered quickly. "They are dead. There is
no mistake. I cannot do what you do, Mr. Mulder. I
cannot live on hope and whispers. I have to live with
what is, not what if."
  
His arm was resting along the top of the couch, and
he rubbed his fingertips over the rich upholstery as
he worried his lips, choosing his words carefully.
"Is that what you think I do?" he finally asked,
careful not to let anger creep into his voice. "That
I refuse to believe the truth?  That if someone would
bring me a body and prove it is Samuel, I would not
believe them?"
  
She turned to him, putting her hand over his. "That
is not-"
  
"Don't you think I know he is probably dead? I know,"
he said, rage beginning to boil dangerously inside
him. "I know it, but I don't feel it. Don't you think
I've seen him die a thousand times in my nightmares?"
  
"I know-"
  
"No, you don't know. He is my son, Dana - my baby
boy. I raised him, and nothing is more important to
me than he is; I always told him that. He trusted me
when I said 'go put up the horses; your mother will
be fine,' but then I fell asleep and now his mother
is dead. And his baby sister. Then I went back to
the war and left him alone. To hell with the Goddamn
war! Let the south secede; I don't care. Let the
south take their slaves and cotton and state's rights
and build a wall through the middle of the Union.
But, no. 'Father has to go, Sam. Stay with
Grandfather. Everything will be all right.' It won't
be all right, Dana. My only son is gone. My father,
my wife, and my baby are all dead.  It will never,
ever be all right ever again. Don't tell me you know,
Dana, because you have no damn idea."
  
Suddenly, there was silence, and he swallowed
angrily, clenching and releasing his teeth and
embarrassed at himself.
  
"You are correct, Mr. Mulder, I cannot know how it
feels to lose a child," she finally said evenly. "But
I know how it feels to lose everyone else."
  
He leaned forward, pinching the bridge of his nose
with his fingers and keeping his eyes jammed shut
until the urge to cry passed. He'd already raised his
voice and swore at her; the last thing he intended to
do was start sobbing in front of her. He hadn't cried
since he was ten; now wasn't the time to start.
  
"I'm sorry," he muttered eventually. "You didn't
deserve that."
  
"I did not mean to upset you.  I only meant-" 
  
She trailed off, rubbing her hand over his back as
she tried to smooth out the pain.
  
"I know what you meant." He swallowed again, turning
his head to look at her. Dana's face was close to
his, so he kissed her quickly, and then smirked
unenthusiastically. "Aren't I just a laugh a minute?
Say the word and I can arrange an annulment and that
ticket to Ireland."
  
She put her hand on his cheek, stroking her thumb
over his skin. "Please do not do that. Do not pull
away. I see you hurting, and I am not sure how to
help. You have been so kind to me-" 
  
"Snapping at you: yes, very kind," he interrupted.
  
"And to my daughter," she continued, smoothing his
dark hair back from his temple. "You are so alone.
When I ask if you are all right, you seem surprised,
as though no one has asked you that in a very long
time. You are so hungry-"
  
"Hungry?"
  
"I think that is the right word: hungry. Men can
hunger for the truth. Can men also hunger to be cared
for? To be loved?"
  
Caught off-guard, he wet his lips, then asked, "Do
you love me?  No, never mind," he amended quickly.
"With all that's happened in the last week, what an
awful question. Never mind."
  
Her hand left his face and smoothed her black skirt
anxiously. "I-I do not know what I feel right now. I
know I am not Melissa-"  
   
"I don't expect you to be Melly. I don't, Dana," he
said earnestly.
  
"I do care that you are hurting. I would like-" She
stopped, sliding her lower lip between her teeth. "I
would like to lessen that, if I can."
  
He was still slouched forward on the sofa, elbows on
his knees, with his head turned toward her. "Do you?
Love me?"
  
"I will," she answered softly.
  
"You will what?" he asked, not understanding.
  
"I will love you."
  
"I will let you."
  
To his surprise, Dana stood, and then slowly began
unfastening the buttons on the front of her dress,
watching her fingers instead of him. One buttonhole
was tight, and she worked at it determinedly until
she got it undone. She pushed the fabric back from
her shoulders, down over her hips, and then draped
the new dress over the opposite end of the sofa and
started undoing the waist of her petticoat.
  
"Dana," he said quietly, almost reverently, "I think
we were talking about two different kinds of love."
  
She paused, looking self-conscious. "I should stop?"
  
"Under no circumstances," he responded in the same
soft voice.
  
She let the ruffled petticoat fall to the floor so a
pile of white material almost as high as her knees
surrounded her. He should step out and let her
undress privately, but he was mesmerized. Except for
stumbling onto Dana in her bedroom that night at
Waterston's plantation, he'd never seen a woman
undressing. Undressed, yes, but not undressing, and
propriety be damned - he wasn't about to leave or
look away unless she told him to.  Normally, there
would be more layers: a corset cover, a hoop or a few
more petticoats, and pantalets, and he was sorry
there weren't, since that meant he couldn't watch her
take them off. 
  
Staring at her like a hungry wolf must have been
disconcerting, because her fingers only created more
knots in the laces of her whalebone corset.
  
"Let me," he finally offered. "Do I just untie it?"
he asked. She nodded and turned around, letting him
work the tight laces loose until she could slip off
the stiff, boned fabric. "You don't have to do this,"
he reminded her. "I won't insist. The baby, Dr.
Waterston: is it too soon?"
  
"I do not think so, but I have never had a baby
before.  Many women have a child every year, so it
must be all right, I would think." She turned around,
looking at him uncertainly, as though he might know.
  
"Why don't we go slowly?" he suggested, standing up.
"We can always stop.  All right?"
  
"All right," she murmured, letting him lead her
toward the big bed.
  
"You'll tell me: if you're scared, if I hurt you?"
  
She nodded again, and he did too, like they'd reached
some binding contractual agreement.
  
He stopped beside the bed, looking down at her, an
unwelcome thought taking root where passion should
have been. Of course she would love him physically.
She was his wife and it was the correct - and long
overdue - thing to do. Dana liked knowing and doing
the right thing; he'd learned that about her already.
Whether it was conjugating a verb or consummating a
marriage, she liked to follow the rules. She would
please him in bed, give him children, run his house,
and meet his every need - and he would never be sure
if it was because she wanted to or because she was
obligated.
  
She hesitated, then exhaled and began unfastening the
buttons of his shirtfront. He let her strip it and
his undershirt off, leaving him  bare-chested, then
resumed watching her. He didn't move to touch or kiss
her, and after a few seconds, she looked away,
flustered and awkward.
  
"Mr. Mulder, you can just say - if this is not what
you want. If you are still unwell. Or if I am doing
something wrong. When you asked me to marry you and
on the road that day, I thought... Please tell me
what you want, because I am confused."
  
"I am sorry. I think I'm confused about what I want."
He raised his hand, outlining her cheek with his
fingertip. "I think that may be the problem."
  
"Just tell me. I will do whatever you want."
  
He sat on the edge of the bed, pulling her to sit
facing him. "There is something I want to know.
Something I want to ask you, first."
  
"What is it?"
  
He took her hand, toying with it as he asked slowly,
"If there were no vows. No marriage. No potential of
a baby. And no sin," he said, trying to preempt her
potential objections. "And no consequences or
expectations. If it was just us - a man and a woman,
would you want this?"
  
She was watching him intently for some clue as to how
to proceed, and he saw her blink in surprise.
  
"Would you be with me only because you wanted to?" he
asked, boiling his question down to a single 
sentence.
  
"I, I-" she started uncertainly. "I do not know how
to answer because that is not the case. We are
married. We could have a child. Fornication is a sin.
There are other factors."
  
"But if there were no other factors, Dana," he
pressed her.
  
"But there are, Mr. Mulder," she insisted. "For a
woman, regardless of what she wants, there are always
other factors."
  
"You told me that if Dr. Waterston was dead, you did
not want to marry again."
  
"I did say that. And you offered me some kind advice
which I have tried to heed."
  
"That advice was about..." He paused and looked at
her steadily. "About choosing to follow a man who is
worth following."
  
Her voice softened and she looked down. "Yes."
  
"All right," he said after a moment, his tone
matching hers. "You are correct; there are always
other factors. You cannot answer me, and I should
never have asked you to."
  
"All right."
  
"Relax, Dana."
  
She took a slow breath, her breasts rising and
falling underneath her white chemise.
  
He smoothed his thumb across her palm. "Relax," he
repeated. "We aren't off to the best start, are we?"
  
"At marriage or at, at this? At your type of love?"
  
"Yes," he answered, and earned a dutiful smile.
  
He kissed her forehead, letting his lips linger
against the cool skin, then leaned down and rested
his cheek against hers.
  
She shifted closer, and he felt her hand on his bare
forearm. "It is a quest, you said. The beginning of
an adventure," she whispered.
  
He slid one hand across the fabric covering her back
and then let his fingers caress her neck and slide
through her hair. "I wonder what we'll discover?" 
  
She didn't respond verbally, but her lips touched his
jaw and made their way diagonally down his neck, each
kiss sending sparks to his spine.
  
He exhaled and closed his eyes.
  
"I cannot separate the other things I feel -
friendship, gratitude, duty - to say what I would 
want if I felt none of those things," she explained
quietly, her lips close to his ear, her breath making 
the tiny hairs stand at attention. "But, if I am 
allowed to consider them - to be close to my husband, 
to please him, to give him another child - my answer 
would be yes, I think."
  
"All right," he answered softly, and then slid his
lips along her jaw and to her mouth. As they kissed,
he felt the last of the tension draining from his
body as well as hers. Something built inside him, and
instead of pulling back he just let the flow of it
carry him along the way the tide carried a raft away
from shore and out to sea.
  
He laid her back on the bed, untying the ribbon at
the neck of her chemise and watching her chest rise
and fall with each breath. He touched her through the
fabric, tracing the slope and peak of her breast,
then slowly slipped the thin cloth aside and cupped
her breast with his palm, letting his fingers mold to
the yielding flesh.
  
She inhaled, and he glanced up to make sure he wasn't
hurting her. He had no experience with breasts
currently serving a practical purpose. Correction: he
had minimal experience, and it wasn't with Melly or
Sarah, and it wasn't a proud memory.
  
"Dana?"
  
"Fine," she murmured, pulling her shoulders back as
he stroked her nipple. "It is fine. The baby will
need to eat soon," she added, explaining the drop of
milk that appeared.  
  
"Is it all right?"
  
She nodded, and he lowered his head, pressing his
tongue flat against her nipple and then licking
lightly rather than sucking. Dana's breath caught
again, and she shifted, then rested her hand lightly
on his shoulder as he switched breasts. 
  
"Nice. Soft. Sweet," he mumbled, running one hand
down her hip and then back up her thigh. His fingers
whispered against her skin, tracing invisible
electric paths. She raised her hips so he could push
her chemise up, being a perfectly compliant bedmate.
Nightgowns generally went up, not off, preserving
modesty, but she pulled hers over her head, leaving
her body bare before him. Blankets covered her from
the waist down, and only his hands and mouth and
chest covered her from the waist up.
  
Several of the lamps on the walls were lit, so he
could see her clearly. She didn't ask him to get up
and snuff them.
  
"Fine?" he whispered, pausing, his face over hers.
  
"Fine," she answered softly.
  
"Dana, I can count on one hand the number of women
I've even kissed," he admitted quietly. "I married
Melly when I was sixteen; there hasn't been anyone
since.  Not really. And Melly was- she was very
different from you."
  
"Am I doing something wrong?"
  
"No. Not a thing. Close your eyes; try to relax," he
told her, trailing his hand slowly down her stomach
and under the covers. "I don't want to embarrass you,
but I don't want to hurt you, either. If this isn't
all right, just say."
  
She didn't say, so his fingers drifted downward,
through the soft patch of hair and to the delicate
skin beneath. "Spread you legs," he whispered
huskily, and she did, turning her head to the side
and clutching a handful of the blanket in her fist.
Her breathing changed as he touched her, stroking
lightly. "It's all right," he assured her, watching
as she gritted her teeth, keeping her eyes tightly
closed. Her mouth moved, making silent vowel sounds,
and her thighs trembled. He explored with one finger,
then two, and heard her gasp.
  
"Hurt?"
  
"No," she said, her breaths coming a little quicker.
"I will tell you if it hurts."
  
Not completely convinced, he stopped, and she opened
her eyes, caressing his face like she had the
previous night.
  
"Like this, or turn over?" she asked.
  
He stared at her, taking a few seconds to figure out
what she meant. Did he want her on her back or on her
hands and knees? It wasn't a choice he'd been offered
before.
  
"Like this. You do aim to please," he commented as
she shifted under him, positioning herself, then
putting her hands above her head. "I do not want to
hold you down. You don't need to be still, Dana."
  
She lowered her arms, stroking his shoulders and
raising her mouth to his earlobe, which he'd never
realized had so many nerve endings.
  
"Well, please try to be reasonably still," he
amended, feeling a little tipsy. "Somewhere between
playing dead and having an epileptic fit."
  
To his surprise, she laughed, and so did he.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
End: Paracelsus IV


Paracelsus V
  
  *~*~*~*
  
Dear Melly, 
  
It is late. The fire burns low, crumbling into its
last glowing orange and crimson embers. Dana and the
baby are curled together in the center of our bed, 
and it comforts me to listen to their soft breathing. 
Everyone is asleep; sometimes I think the whole world 
is asleep, and I am the only one awake and watchful. 
I look into the fire and wonder, 'Does no one else 
see what I see?'
  
Dana does, I think, to some degree. She told me she
needs to see life as it is, not as what it might be
in some perfect world - in the perfect world I create
inside my mind. She has never looked away, and I am
only now turning back to look again, to take stock,
to calculate the vast amount of water that has passed
underneath the bridge.
  
Do you realize I am thirty-one years old? I would say
I am much older, but the calendar is very firm about
it. Only thirty-one.  
  
I wanted to keep you safe, Melly: to wrap my arms
around you and protect you from the world, but I
could not. I don't know if I ever did. How could I
keep away darkness that stalks the soul from the
inside? I did try, and sometimes it makes me angry
that others stood by and watched me try, and fail,
and said nothing. We smile and we go about our
pretty, polite routines, and inside we die.
  
Each choice I made seemed like the proper one at the
time I made it. Duty, honor, country: those are the
foundation on which my world is built. If I was a
good boy and ate my vegetables, I got pie. I was a
good boy, Melly. And a good husband, and a good
father, and son, and student, and businessman, and
soldier, and all the things a man is expected to be,
most before I was finished being a boy. There is a
star beside my name in the Book of Dutiful, and yet I
watched everyone I cared for being taken from me, one
by one.
  
It made me angry. I am only now beginning to realize
how angry.
  
Now, something selfish and insolent inside me snarls,
'It is my turn. Life has taken from me until I felt
the wind blowing through me as if I was a sieve, so
to Hell with the rules. I want this woman, Dana,
because I want her: by my side, in my bed, across
from me at the dinner table.  I want this child,
Emily, because I love her, because I held her when
she was born and watched her take her first breath
and pretended she was mine.'
  
My father was fond of Shakespeare, so I'll say it
this way: 'What wound did ever heal but by degrees?'
  
I am healing, and I do it by degrees. Each day, I
roll my shoulders, shake my arms, and marvel at this
new freedom to move as I please.  It is heady, and it
is frightening. I have spent years tiptoeing across
the thin ice of normal, and now Dana and her daughter
draw me farther and farther out onto the frozen pond.
  
If I want to be truthful, I married Dana, in part,
because she could not hurt me. I did not love her; I
do not love her - not the way I loved you or Sarah.
Over the years, I had built a wall around me brick
by brick, and I allowed no one inside. Yet Dana chips
away at my wall, and I do not even notice her doing
it. She sticks her pretty red head through the
opening she has made and asks in her lilting accent,
'Are you ready to come out, Mr. Mulder?' And when I
growl and snap, she answers, 'All right; I will be
outside waiting when you are ready.'
  
Everything I have learned since I was sixteen tells
me to hang back, to stay at the edge of the pond
where it is safe. Safer. To tell her to come back to
me instead of following her across the ice.
  
But I step forward, exposing myself, and I wait for
the ice to crack.  
   
Mulder
  
  *~*~*~*
  
The clouds slid silently across the moon, dense and
black and promising a storm before morning, but the
air was still. Not tranquil, but hesitant. Cautious.
It was too warm for an overcoat and too cool for
shirt sleeves: that indeterminate no-temperature for
which it was impossible to prepare. What should have
been late autumn in DC felt like spring, and people
squinted at the night sky, sucked at their teeth
thoughtfully, and waited.
  
The Italianate mansion sat back from the street,
partially concealed by manicured hedges and a
collection of trees clinging to the last of their
scarlet leaves. It was a new house build with old
money, an exercise in clean lines and elegant
simplicity. Mulder's taste tended toward Spartan, but
Melly had a brief love affair with wrought iron, so
metal balconies decorated each of the five large
arched windows, and a wrought iron fence outlined the
large corner lot. Overall, the brick walls had a
solid, placid look, like a lion settling down in the
grass to watch the gazelle. 
  
In the yellow glow of the street lamp, Mulder helped
Dana, who was holding the baby, out of the hired
carriage. As she waited on the sidewalk, turning
slowly to take in her surroundings, he paid the
driver and collected their bags. The driver tipped
his hat and clucked to the mare, and the horse's
hooves clopped hollowly away into the darkness,
leaving them standing in front of Mulder's house. The
twin gas lamps on the front porch twinkled, welcoming
them home.
  
"This way," he said for lack of something more
profound. He unlatched the iron front gate, letting
in swing wide open; they were halfway up the walk
when it banged shut behind them, making him jump and
shattering the genteel silence.
   
He paused in front of the porch steps, a feeling of
dread covering him like a wool cape.
  
Sometimes, traveling was much easier than actually
arriving. Going had an optimistic, purposeful feel to
it, whereas being required facing reality.
  
When he opened the door, the house would be empty.
Sam would not come running to greet him, clutching
sheet music and a horsehair bow. He would not find
Melly at her sewing, nor would he discover his father
had dropped in to visit and decided to stay for
dinner. That chapter of his life had ended, and when
he opened the front door, the page would turn and a
new chapter would begin.
  
Dana waited, holding the sleeping baby against her
shoulder and watching him.
  
His old key still fit the lock. "This must be the
place," he said softly to Dana, his hand shaking
slightly as he turned the brass knob.
  
On the other side of the door, a dog's claws fidgeted
impatiently against the wood floor, but Grace was too
old to bother barking until he saw who it was.
  
"Hello, Grace," Mulder told the basset hound, who
sniffed them, then turned away, disappointed, and
waddled back toward his bed behind the kitchen stove.
"Sam's dog," he explained to Dana, who nodded.
  
The dog paused, looking back as he heard the name,
then disappeared to the back of the house.  
  
"Grace is a boy," Dana observed.
  
"Yes."
  
He lacked the energy to explain the story behind
that: how seventy-five pounds of fat and wrinkles on
three inches of legs came to be called 'Grace'.
  
As Mulder lit an oil lamp, the grandfather clock
chimed eleven-thirty, then went back to its polite
ticking, acting as if nothing had happened. A
landscape Melly had painted hung over the credenza.
The canister on the floor beside it held two
umbrellas, a walking stick - his father's - and a
baseball bat - his son's. The servants wouldn't
return until morning, so except for Mulder, Dana, and
Emily, the only things alive in the house were
memories.
  
"Upstairs," he told Dana, who shifted the baby to one
arm and gathered her skirt up enough to clear the
steps. He raised the lamp, following her like she
knew the way.
  
When the architect had shown them the plans a decade
ago, the first thing Mulder noticed had been the
grand front staircase, which spiraled gracefully up
to the landing, seeming to defy gravity. He'd had to
stop sliding down the banister when Samuel was six,
when Sam had tried to imitate him, fallen off, and
almost broken his wrist.
  
For Melly, the highlight of the house had been the
ballroom on the second floor. 'We could have a
party,' she'd said excitedly, although they never
had. The only use the ballroom ever got was on rainy
days, when Samuel and Mulder had played ball in there
or pretended they were ice-skating in their sock
feet. The door was ajar now, and the big room was
dark and empty.
  
The door to Samuel's bedroom was closed, and Mulder
put his hand on the knob, not sure if he wanted to
open it or not.    
  
"Are you all right, Mr. Mulder?" Dana asked,
startling him.  
  
The lamp cast a soft glow over her face, making her
blue eyes look bottomless, as though she could see
directly into his soul.  
  
"I'm fine," he lied, letting go of the knob.
  
The housekeeper had gotten his telegram. The nursery
had been repainted, and a new cradle and rocking
chair were waiting. There were drawers of clean
diapers and blankets and baby clothes: more than one
infant could ever manage to wear. 
  
He left Dana in the nursery to get the baby settled
in, and walked to the master bedroom at end of the
hall, swallowing against the dry lump in his throat.
The big room held the same ornately carved bed, the
same furniture, but everything else had been
conscientiously removed. Melly's clothes were gone
from the wardrobe, and her perfume bottles were
missing from the dressing table. The room smelled
like lemon oil and clean linens instead of like her.
No hairbrushes, no earbobs, no fashion magazines, no
trace any woman had ever been there.
  
The only evidence of Melissa was the intricate quilt
spread over the high mattress: his housekeeper's
unspoken comment on his new marriage. Melly had just
finished the quilt when she died, and someone -
probably Mulder's mother - had the idea to drape it
over her coffin like a flag draped over a soldier's
casket. Before they'd lowered the coffin into the
ground, the minister had taken the quilt off and
handed it to Mulder, who'd carried it home, certain
he was about to wake up from his nightmare.
  
Angry, he jerked it off the bed, folding and putting
it away in a chest. He'd deal with Poppy in the
morning.   

Fabric rustled, and there were soft footsteps in the
hall. As the bedroom door opened, he remembered to
expect Dana, not Melly. 
  
"Is she asleep?" Mulder asked in a perfunctory non-
tone. "Is the nursery all right?"
  
"It is fine. It is wonderful. This house is very- It
is very grand."
  
"Good," he said absently, barely hearing her.
  
He stared at her, then sat on the sofa in the corner
of the bedroom, beside the cold fireplace. A book
he'd been reading before bed two Christmases ago was
on the table, his place still marked. Normally,
Melly's sewing basket would have been close by. He
would read to her as she sewed, but that space was
empty. It was as though time had stopped in this
house and erased one woman's life before it 
restarted.
  
"Are you all right, Mr. Mulder?" Dana asked again,
standing in the center of the bedroom and waiting,
like a bottle of wine presented for his inspection.  
  
"You have already asked me and I have already
answered," he answered politely. "I am fine. How are
you?"  
  
"There are ghosts here."
  
He couldn't tell if she was speaking literally or
figuratively, so he didn't respond.   
  
"Is there anything I can do, Mr. Mulder?"
  
"No. You must be tired," he said, changing the
subject. "It is late - long past time for bed."
  
"Yes," she agreed.
  
She stepped a little closer, still a good two yards
from where he sat. Seeming uncertain what to do, she
began to unbutton the front of her dress.
  
"Dana..." he said softly, with no idea how he planned
to finish his sentence. 
  
She stopped, her fingers still holding the black silk
fabric.
  
"I-" he started, then just trailed off, again not
finishing whatever he'd intended to say.
  
He focused his eyes on the empty bed behind her.  He
remembered the last time he'd shared it with Melly.
It had been Christmas night and he'd been on leave
from the cavalry, his chest knitting back together
after the bayonet gash. Samuel had been asleep,
Melly had invited shyly, and, very carefully and
gently, they'd conceived a child. After that - months
later, after he'd found her in the bathtub - he
carried Melissa to the bed and sat beside her,
watching helplessly as her life bled away.
  
It was a very long time before he noticed Dana again,
who was still standing before him with her bodice
partially unbuttoned.
  
There were a number of nice hotels in Washington. He
would take Dana and Emily to one tonight and live
there until he could have another house built and
start over. This dead room and this haunted house: he
would padlock the front door shut and never reenter
unless Samuel came home.
  
"Is this, is this your bedroom, Mr. Mulder?" she
asked uncertainly, breaking the silence. "Did you
mean that I should leave? Do you and your wife sleep
separately?"
  
"No," he whispered hoarsely. "Please do not leave."
'Me,' he added silently.
  
"All right."
  
"You are my wife, Dana," he reminded both of them.
"And, no, you and I do not sleep separately."
  
She nodded very slightly. "Come to me, then," she
invited.
  
He stood, then was in front of her in three steps,
his mouth on hers, his hands cupping her face. He
needed something warm and real to put his arms around
to keep away the darkness. She was warm and real and
if he closed his eyes, he could almost convince
himself she loved him: not because he thought she
really did, but because he desperately needed her to.
  
He kissed her like he had that day beside the road,
not hesitating or apologizing for wanting her. Like
she had that day, she responded, putting her arms
around his neck and parting her lips and letting the
rest of the world fall away.  
  
Now experienced at undressing a woman, Mulder
unfastened the front of her dress with one hand,
stripping it off. The petticoats and camisole came
off next, leaving her corset over her camisole and
pantalets, stockings and shoes.
  
"Can you breathe in your corset, so long as I don't
crush you?" he asked, and she nodded that she could.
  
Taking off the rest of her clothes seemed like too
much time and trouble, so he picked her up, her legs
around his hips, and set her on the edge of the bed.
  
He talked to her in murmurs and touches rather than
words, and heard her assuring him it was all right.
She was all right; he was all right. He nodded,
opening his eyes to watch her as he penetrated deep
inside her. Her fingers tightened on his shoulders,
and she pressed her forehead against his chest,
moaning softly. He felt welcome inside her. She'd
weighed the consequences and chosen to marry him,
despite what just about anyone on the planet,
including Mulder, would have advised her to do. She
looked up, watching him in return, and he rocked his
hips against hers.
  
When it was over, he waited while Dana finished
undressing, held her until she seemed to fall asleep,
and then tucked the blankets around her. He checked
on the baby before removing his boots and stretching
out on the sofa in the master bedroom, in the corner
opposite the bed where Dana slept. The clock
downstairs struck midnight, and outside, it began to
rain.
  
After a few minutes, Dana got up, nude, took his
hand, and led him back to bed.
  
  *~*~*~* 
  
The mournful whistle sounded, and two-dozen heads
turned in unison.
  
"That's the train," Mulder had informed Byers
excitedly, in case John Byers hadn't recognized a
train when he saw one. Railroads had been around for
almost two decades; they weren't a novelty anymore.
"The train: it's coming."
  
Byers had looked less than impressed.
  
Most of the young men on the platform were university
students going home for the break, but Mulder was
staying at Harvard, hoping to get ahead on his
studies. The sooner he finished, the sooner he could
go home. Instead, his parents were coming for a
visit, and, more importantly, his parents were
bringing Samuel, who he hadn't seen since the
beginning of the term. 
  
The engine clacked past, then the coal car, then a
series of red passenger cars smudged black with soot.
Mulder loped through the steam, hurrying to catch up
and craning to see a familiar face in any of the
windows.  
  
Before the train came to a full stop, his father
leaned out from the steps of the first car, holding
the railing with one hand and raising his walking
stick with the other. "Fox!" he called, jumping down.
  
"Father!"
  
Mulder threw his arms around him, cherishing the
scent of cherry pipe tobacco and brandy and home.
Even at eighteen-years-old, even married with a
family of his own, a son was allowed to miss his
father.
  
"How was your trip?"
  
"Horrible. Your mother may never be the same. The
engine hit four cows; you're going to hear about it."
  
The train groaned to a stop, sighing with relief, and
passengers spilled out of every opening.  
  
"Oh, Fox, it was just horrible," his mother informed
him as he lifted her down from the steps, setting her
safely on the platform. "The train hit four cows."
She paused for breath, kissing him on each cheek. "It
was horrible. What an awful, belching, unnatural
monstrosity. I don't think I'll ever be the same."
  
"I don't think my hand will ever be the same after
your mother's death grip. She was certain we were
going to derail at every curve."
  
"I couldn't help it, Fox. Your father said trains
reach twenty miles an hour. I was sure every second
was my last. It was just horrible. I don't know how
I'll survive the trip back."  
  
Mulder smiled, enjoying their familiar banter. If his
mother had really wanted to take the stagecoach
instead of the train back, all she had to do was ask;
she had a good time pretending to be afraid and his
father had a good time comforting her. Even in a
crowd of people, his parents seemed connected, as
though they shared some secret they weren't telling
the rest of the world. His father offered his arm and
his mother took it, resting her gloved hand lightly
on the fine wool fabric of his overcoat.
  
"Twenty miles an hour," Mulder echoed dutifully,
knowing trains could go much faster and his father
just hadn't told her. "How terrifying." 
  
Senator Mulder winked at his son, then reached over
to rumple his hair as though he was still seven.
Mulder grinned and submitted, stooping down a little.
He was several inches taller than his father.  
  
"Mother, you look beautiful.  Is this a new dress?"
  
She answered that it was, and his father said
something about it costing millions of silk 
worms their lives, but Mulder didn't really hear 
either of them.
   
A light-skinned Negro woman stepped out of the train
car, carrying a carpetbag in her hand and a little
boy on her hip. Her hair was covered with a white
kerchief, and the steam made her calico dress
flutter, showing the outline of her legs. Her
father's Cherokee heritage showed in her face, just
as it showed in Melly's, and gave her a proud, exotic
air that caused a murmur among the well-bred students
on the platform.
  
If anyone looked closely, the child she carried bore
a resemblance to her, but few people looked closely.
It was a regrettable, yet unforgivable error of
birth: Melly and Sarah's mother had been Jack
Kavanaugh's wife; hers had been his slave.
  
"That's one pretty nig-" a young man near them
started to comment before he realized he wasn't in
South Carolina and amended, "Colored girl." 
  
"That's my boy," Mulder shouted, reaching up to take
Samuel from her. "My baby boy," he announced
victoriously, holding the toddler high in the air,
then lowering and hugging him tightly, afraid he
might get away. He closed his eyes, savoring the
warmth of his son. "Oh, my Sam. How's my Sammy? Was
he good on the train, Poppy?" 
  
"He did fine, sir," she answered, keeping her eyes
down. Another of the Mulders' servants took the
carpetbag, and Sam's nurse disappeared back into the
car. 
  
"Da-dee, Da-dee, Da-dee," Samuel chanted, pounding
his fist against Mulder's chest.     
  
"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy," he answered, spinning him
around so he squealed. "My Sammy boy! You're so big,
baby boy." 
  
The crowd of men on the platform grinned and murmured
indulgently, but fell silent as another woman exited
the train car, her pink dress fluttering.  
  
"Surprise, Fox," his mother murmured. "Happy
birthday, sweetheart."
  
Mulder looked up, curious, then truly surprised.
Behind him, he heard Byers whisper "My God," under
his breath. His roommate had seen pictures of
Melissa, but he'd never seen her in the flesh. No one
at school had, and Byers had dubbed her Mulder's
'phantom wife,' much mentioned but never glimpsed,
and said he'd begun to doubt her existence.     
  
She hesitated on the metal steps, and, spotting
Mulder, she smiled uncertainly.  He smiled back,
relieved. Maybe she was Melly again, instead of some
tearful, distant stranger who'd somehow taken her
place after the baby had come. Her skirt swayed,
showing her petticoats and the tops of her dainty
boots as she took one step down, holding tightly to
the railing.  
  
Byers finally exhaled, and the crowd edged closer to
the train, making Melly shrink back.
  
"Mah-mee," Samuel announced, pointing to and naming
her the way he'd point and announce 'dog' or 'cat.' 
  
"This wasn't my idea, Fox," his father 
insisted,raising his hands to declare his innocence. 
"The doctors think it's too much excitement for her 
and I agree, but she wanted to come for your 
birthday. She and your mother have been conspiring."
  
"Oh, you think it's too much excitement to eat a
peach, you old fuddy-duddy. Melissa's been fine on
the train, haven't you, dear?" his mother responded,
and Melly nodded, still watching Mulder from
underneath her eyelashes. People tended to call Melly
'dear' a lot, and it would never have dawned on her 
to object. "She misses Fox and it's not too much
excitement at all. Stand up straight, dear; don't
slouch," she reminded her, and Melly obediently
squared her shoulders. 
  
"Watch her 'round the baby," Poppy reminded him
softly, and Mulder shook his head that he remembered
as he smiled, shifted Samuel to his hip, and went to
kiss his wife's cheek.    
   
There was another murmur on the platform as they
embraced chastely. Most of his classmates knew Mulder
was married - an oddity for their age and station -
but he'd just become a much-envied young man.  At
eighteen, he already had what they dreamed of: a
healthy son, a beautiful adoring wife, wealthy,
loving parents, and nothing but great prospects. As
always, he was ahead of the game. His future was as
set as the stone walls of Harvard.
  
Years later, when John Byers had a family of his own,
Mulder had asked him if life ever seemed just
slightly too tight, like a suit cut a quarter-inch
too snug. Although it looked fine and was perfectly
wearable, it felt confining, never allowing him to
completely relax. Life was fine, as long as he didn't
want to take a deep breath.
  
When they were twenty-three, he'd asked, after a few
glasses of wine, if Byers ever felt that way.  His
wife Susanne had refilled their goblets, and they sat
in the parlor, watching Byers' young daughters taking
their first steps.
  
Byers had said 'no,' shaking his head and not seeming
to understand what Mulder had meant. He'd never asked
again.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
At its conception in the year Caesar first noticed
Cleopatra, it was a brilliant system, but by 1582 the
faulty Julian calendar had accumulated ten extra
days, so March 21st fell on March 31st. To correct
this, the Gregorian system was developed, and that
October, Pope Gregory XIII moved everyone two hundred
and forty hours backward and started over.
  
Popes could do that.
  
Those hours became the lost time, the violet-black,
surreal no-time between the last bit of night and the
first breath of morning. Between lovers, between a
down mattress and soft blankets, between strong arms
and yielding flesh, the universe cast down its eyes
demurely and looked away. Time held its breath,
denying anything had happened, although it often had. 
  
"She's still asleep," he told her through chattering
teeth, as he returned from checking on the baby and
slid beneath the covers. "Someone should light a fire
in here. Maybe I'm used to Georgia, but it's 
freezing."
  
Half awake, Dana moved toward him, thoughtfully
bringing all the heat in the bed with her. To get him
to stop shivering, she put her arms around him,
fitting her body against his.
  
"Are you awake?" he asked, and was 'um-hummed' lazily
from the back of her throat.
  
She purred as he kissed down her neck, across her
collarbone, then gently to her breast. He reached up,
lacing his fingers through hers, while her other hand
rested lightly on the back of his head.
  
With Dana, he never felt he was pushing her to do 
something she'd rather avoid. She treated lovemaking
as a normal part of life; she didn't seem to find it
painful or any more embarrassing or distasteful than
fixing him breakfast. She wanted to please him; he
only had to tell her what he wanted.

It was effortless: making love to her. 
  
There was a difference between being allowed and
being accepted, and he felt accepted. He wasn't a
moron; he knew there were women who enjoyed being
close: touching, kissing, caressing. Sarah had, as
far as their fumbling had gone. Dana either did, or
she was good enough at pretending to convince him,
though it wasn't hard to fool a man who desperately
wanted to be fooled. Not much could make intimacy bad
for a man, but a thousand little things can make it
better, and feeling welcome was one of them.
  
If he could just stay in bed with her in his arms, he
might be able to face the coming day.
  
"You're wonderful," he whispered to her. 'I love you'
was a betrayal and 'Thank you' seemed pitiful, so he
just repeated, "You are. I've missed you."  
  
"You have missed me?" she murmured sleepily, rolling
her thumbs along the lower vertebrae of his spine and
opening her legs.  
  
He wasn't sure why he'd said that, and he wasn't
inclined to stop and think about it, so he answered,
"It's a long walk to the nursery and back."
  
He pressed his erection against her and closed his
eyes, savoring the prospect of slow lovemaking before
he began what was sure to be a long day. 
  
"It is a trip to the nursery that does this to you?" 
  
Mulder abruptly stopped and pushed away from her.
"No," he said icily. "It is not."
  
She stared at him, her forehead crinkled and her
chest and neck reddened from the stubble on his face.
  
"I'm going to work," he suddenly decided, sitting up.
"The housekeeper's name is Poppy. She's here by six.
She'll see to anything you and Emily need and she'll
be polite about it, or I'll have her head."
  
"I do not understand. Why are you angry?"
  
"I'm not angry," he lied, his words clipped. He got
as far as the edge of the bed before he exploded,
"How dare you! How dare you even think I would-" He
searched for the right words. "Harm her."
  
The bed shifted as Dana sat up.  She tried to touch
him and he jerked away. "I was being funny.  Silly."
  
"You think that is funny?"
  
"I meant you were only gone a few minutes and you
said you had missed me. I thought it was funny you
could miss me in two minutes. Maybe I said it wrong.
What do you mean 'harm her?' You care for Emily. You
ask me a hundred times a day if I think she is all
right. I see you with her. I hear you call her 'Emmy'
and say you are 'Daddy.' I think you pretend she is
your daughter: the baby Melissa was going to have.
Why would you harm her? I do not understand."
  
He exhaled slowly, knowing he had overreacted. "No,
of course I would never hurt her." 
  
"Then what? Please tell me." 
  
For a heartbeat, he thought about it, and for the
first time since before Samuel was born, he almost
told someone the truth.
  
Still sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to
her, he answered, "Melly had a sister named 'Sarah.'
That was what our daughter would have been called. I
just call Emily 'Emmy.' I will stop, if you like."
   
She succeeded in putting one hand, then both, on his
back, silently massaging the tense knots away.
  
"Sarah died," he added after an uncomfortable pause.
"Melly's sister Sarah.  She died when we were fifteen
and Melly was fourteen. Sarah was my friend."
  
"I am sorry."
  
It took several tries before he continued, "Sarah was
my fiancee, Dana. We grew up together, our fathers
were in Congress together, and it was one of those
'everyone expected it' situations. Except that I
loved her very much, and she loved me."
  
"How did she die?"
  
He wet his lips. "They say, of cholera." 
  
"How did she die, Mr. Mulder?"
  
"She miscarried. Hemorrhaged. There was an 
infection..."
  
"I am sorry," she repeated in the same soft voice,
stroking his bare shoulders.
  
He listened to the rain drumming steadily on the roof
above them.
  
"Did you know about the baby?" she asked cautiously.
  
"No. Not until it was too late. She must have known,
but she was afraid to tell me." He shifted,
rearranging his hands on the crumpled sheet. "I knew
about Samuel, though. Before Melly and I married."
  
"Oh." 
  
"People say many things, Dana. I'm sure they'll
relish saying them to you. You know me; believe what
you want." 
  
He hung his head, unwilling to look at her, and
examined his bare feet dangling a few inches above
the rug. He was cold again. As he sat, gooseflesh
formed on his shoulders and arms, and the dark hairs
rose protectively.
  
"Being here, watching you last night and this
morning, I think perhaps I do know you," she finally
said. "Will you come back to bed?"
  
"It's past five. I'm usually up by five. I won't go
back to sleep."
  
"I was not asking you to go back to sleep. I asked
you to come back to bed."
  
"But I won't sleep," he insisted.
  
"I am not asking you to sleep, Mr. Mulder."
  
"Oh," he responded slowly, the tips of his ears
warming as he finally took her meaning. "Oh."
  
He slipped back beneath the warm covers and into
another hour of no-time, forgetting himself and the
world outside their bed.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
He realized, after he'd written the note that he'd
never seen Dana read anything. She enjoyed him
reading aloud to her, but it wasn't outside the realm
of possibility that, as a woman, she couldn't read
well herself. And it wasn't likely she had any
acquaintance the poem, since it had only been
published it in 1860 and wasn't widely known before
the war.
  
He initialed it, regardless. If she didn't know the
verse, she wouldn't know he was misquoting, and just
being literate was no guarantee she could decipher
his handwriting.
  
'Passing stranger, you do not know how longingly I
have looked upon you. You must be she I was seeking.
You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh,
and you take of my beard, breast, and hands in
return. I will see to it I do not lose you.  M.'  
  
He looked at the slip of paper, hesitating. He'd
never written a love letter, and bastardizing Walt
Whitman probably wasn't the way to start. Lust wasn't
love, and he'd rather Dana read Mark Twain's stories
if she wanted something to laugh at.  
  
Mulder picked up the pencil again and wrote across
the bottom of the page, 'Sleep well. I am going to
the paper. I will see you and Emmy at noon.  The
housekeeper's name is Poppy. She will see to anything
you need. Make yourself at home. M.'
  
He tore off the top half, tucking the original note
in his coat pocket and propped the bottom of the page
against the lamp for Dana to find when she awoke. He
fenced Emily in beside her with heavy pillows so the
baby couldn't roll off the bed, kissed them both, and
blew out the lamp as he left.    
   
  *~*~*~*
  
The streetcar running from The White House down
Pennsylvania Avenue could have him at work in ten
minutes, but Mulder walked, trying to recapture the
rhythm and flow of the city he called home.
  
Wagons of produce rolled past, bound for Central
Market, wheels splashing over the cobblestones.
Shopkeepers' brooms whooshed over wet sidewalks,
clearing the way for the first patrons to arrive. In
the cafes, gossip hummed over cups of coffee,
raindrops slipped from the edge of his umbrella, and
horse-drawn trolleys squealed past as Washington 
woke.
  
If Samuel was his first child, The Evening Star had
been his second, born only a few years later, to his
own father's dismay. Bill Mulder had tried to
dissuade Mulder from buying the business, then to
persuade him to adopt a more proper, hands-off 
approach to the newspaper trade. Gentlemen owned
businesses; they didn't run them. To that end, Mulder
had invested in several publishing houses - and then
railroads and telegraph and other companies - and
tallied his quarterly profits in a most genteel
manner. The Evening Star, however... Poppy was
forever saying he shouldn't wear suits to work; he
only ruined them. He started the day with his collar
buttoned, his hair combed back, and his waistcoat on,
and ended it with his sleeves rolled up and his
collar and waistcoat off, cursing and getting ink
stains on his trousers as he climbed inside one of
the huge presses to fix it.
  
It was his passion and his refuge. In a society
clothed in fine linen and white lies, Mulder printed
the truth. He might not be able to right the wrong,
but he could expose it. Politics, women's suffrage,
slavery, the war: regardless of his own views, The
Evening Star welcomed debate when most papers
couldn't find both sides of a coin. Avoiding the
rumor-mongering that filled his competition's pages,
he challenged hypocrisy, he exposed the liars and the
thieves - and he signed his name, regardless of the
consequences.
  
His father had eventually given up trying to dissuade
him, and regarded his son's passion for newsprint as
an eccentric hobby - like growing orchids or building
tiny ships in bottles. Until he died, when asked
profession his only son had chosen, Senator Mulder
had taken a deep draw of cherry tobacco smoke from
his pipe and said simply, 'He is an idealist.'
  
The building was still quiet when Mulder arrived. By
definition, it was The Washington 'Evening' Star; the
presses would start running after lunch. In the
morning, reporters wrote copy, telegraph operators on
the top floor scanned the ticker-tape for Associated
Press stories, and the editors laid out the pages.
Once the people in Byers' part of the building
decided what they wanted to print, it went to
Frohike's men to actually print it: to set the type,
prime the machines, feed the rolls of paper into the
presses, and then to cut and fold, by hand, the
quarter-million newspapers that went out each
afternoon, six afternoons a week. 
  
John Byers greeted him with a smile and a 
warm handshake that would have turned into a hug if 
Mulder hadn't pulled back. 
  
"How are you?" 
  
"I'm glad to be back," Mulder answered, sliding into
the old chair behind his desk. Someone had emptied
the waste bin and cleared away the coffee mugs, but
unfortunately left the clutter. Once things made it
to his desk, they tended to stay there until they
grew legs and escaped, or crumbled to dust.
  
"I'm sorry I wasn't at the, at the funeral. I wanted
to tell you that I'm sorry. About Melissa. And your
father. I didn't know until Susanne wrote to me.  I
am so sorry," Byers said.
  
Mulder straightened a stack of papers he'd left out
almost four years ago. "Thank you."
  
"Susanne spoke with Poppy last week at the market.
 She said you've remarried and have a new baby.
Congratulations. Susanne and I would love to have you
and your wife join us for dinner."
  
"Again, thank you. Another night, though. I'd like to
let her get settled in."
  
Byers waited, then cleared his throat, noticeably
uncomfortable. They were old friends, but different
men than they'd been before the war. The years of
fighting and blood and loss hadn't broken them, but
they were changed - altered just enough that their
friendship no longer fit as it once had.
  
"Is there any news about Samuel?" Byers asked,
finally.
  
Mulder looked up. "No. Not yet."
  
"Many soldiers are still making their way home. More
men return every day."
  
Mulder didn't respond. Samuel wasn't a farmer's son
who had to walk home coatless and barefooted. All he
needed to do was make his way to any government
office and say he was the late Senator Mulder's
grandson. Byers knew that as well as Mulder.
  
His editor-in-chief shifted his feet, seeming unsure
what to say next. "Anyway, it's good to have you
back."
  
"It's good to be back," Mulder responded honestly.
"Really."
  
Byers nodded. "Is there anything you need?  The
books, maybe? Do you want to look at the accounts?"
  
"I think... I think I just need a little time. To get
settled in again. It feels..." he started to say,
then didn't finish.
  
His office felt the same as his bedroom had the night
before: like a set awaiting the performers return. 
Except his role was now being played by a 
different actor. Mulder half-expected someone to 
notice him and tell him to leave because he didn't 
belong there. Only months ago, he'd been knee-deep in 
blood, killing men and boys he had no qualm with so 
they wouldn't kill him first. Now, he was in his suit
again, sitting at his desk, like only a few days had
passed. To him, eons must have passed, and the life
he'd returned to belonged to a stranger.
  
"It gets better," Byers assured him. "When I returned
home - to my wife, my children... It does get 
better."
  
Mulder nodded, then opened a desk drawer, checking
its contents and avoiding eye contact.
  
"I'll let you get settled back in, then," he said and
closed Mulder's office door as he left.
   
  *~*~*~* 
  
He'd made three trips to the vast AP telegraph room
on fourth floor, two to the reporters' desks on the
third, watched Frohike supervising the typesetters
piecing together that evening's front page, and
followed Byers around like a shadow for an hour
before Mulder realized why he was so restless. As
much as he enjoyed having dusty newsprint under his
fingers again and the acrid scent of hot metal and
ink around him, he found himself eyeing the clock as
it edged closer to lunchtime.
  
In the last two weeks, he hadn't been away from Emily
and Dana for more than a few minutes. He missed them.
  
"Why don't you just go home?" Melvin Frohike asked,
annoyed at Mulder staring over his shoulder again.
Frohike had been running the mechanics of a
newspaper longer than Mulder had been on this Earth,
and he didn't need a supervisor. "You're worse than a
bitch without her puppies.  Have lunch, check on your
new wife and baby, and then come back and actually
accomplish something."
  
"Do you want to come with me?  Meet Dana and Emily?"
  
Covert glances flew around the room as the
typesetters and engravers looked to see if they'd
heard correctly. Anyone who thought women were the
worst gossips had never worked in a building full of
newsmen. The baby was a girl, then, and she was named
either Dana or Emily. By two o'clock, everyone who
was anyone in DC would know that.
  
Mulder had been getting somber congratulations all
morning, but no one had the nerve to ask him any
details. Most of the men, like Byers, had been at war
when Melly and his father died, and it was awkward
paying their condolences in one breath and asking him
about his new wife and baby in the next.
  
Frohike held up his stubby fingers, which were
stained black with ink. "I'd love to, but I have to
look my best if I'm gonna to meet a pretty lady."
   
"You mean you know some way to improve on this
stunning facade?"
  
"Everything's under control here. Go home, Mulder,"
Byers agreed, bringing down another stack of
handwritten stories for Frohike's men to translate
into print. The deadline for articles was eleven, but
Byers was forever rushing downstairs with 'just one
more' at eleven-fifteen.
  
"I'm going home for lunch," Mulder decided, rolling
down his sleeves.
  
"What a brilliant idea," Frohike grumbled, scowling
at Byers as he snatched the new articles. "Stunning
facade..."  he muttered.
  
  *~*~*~*


He looked around the kitchen nervously and almost
went back outside to make sure he had the right
address.
  
Lunch was nearly ready; the old cook offered Mulder a
taste from a wooden spoon and a welcome peck on the
cheek as he passed. Loaves of bread had just come out
of the oven, and their mouth-watering aroma
permeated the air. The long dining room table was
set for two, with a vase of flowers decorating the
center. The fireplace crackled, pushing warmth into
the walls, and a maid he didn't recognize smiled,
then went back to polishing the silver, screwing up
her face in concentration.  
  
'So this is what it feels like to come home to
normalcy,' he thought and immediately felt guilty.
     
He found Dana in the nursery rocking Emily, and
paused in the doorway to watch them. Samuel had been
five when Mulder built the house, so the nursery had
been an optimistic afterthought consisting of the
architect crossing out 'bedroom' and writing in
'nursery' on the blueprints. Until Melissa become
pregnant two Christmases ago and been overcome with
decorating fever, it sat empty, a dusty reminder of
things that weren't.
  
"Hello," he said quietly, when she noticed him and
looked up.  
  
"Hello," she whispered back, smiling. "She's almost
asleep. How was your work?"
  
"It was fine." He sat on the window seat, his back to
the steamy window. Outside, the storm was passing,
sounding like it was raining out of habit rather than
malice. "How are you? Is everything all right?"
  
"Everything is fine, although I keep getting lost in
this house."
  
"Did Poppy come today?" he ventured. "I didn't see
her downstairs."
  
"I sent her home.  She was upset, I think."
  
Mulder sighed. He'd been afraid of that. "I'll deal
with her.  I'm sorry, Dana.  I probably should have
warned you.  Poppy is - She was Samuel's nurse and
she's protective of us, but I didn't expect her to be
rude to you. I won't have that."
  
"No, she was civil. She took care of Emily: 
changedher, bathed her. I had the feeling I was being 
- oh,
what is the word when you decide how much a thing is
worth?"
  
"Appraised?"
  
"Yes: I was appraised this morning. Then she asked if
your son had gone to work with you, and when I said
he had not, she seemed confused. Poppy thought you
returned home because you had found Samuel."
  
"Oh no." He hadn't dreamed Poppy would interpret his
telegram to mean that.
  
"She has his room ready," Dana continued, "When I
told her you had not found him, she asked if she
should put his things away, like she put Melissa's
things away. I told her not to, to wait. That you
were still looking for him. Was that all right?"
  
He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on her warm
lips. "That was perfect."
   
  *~*~*~*
  
After lunch, he trailed his fingers over the ivory
keys, aimlessly striking a few chords. The piano was
in perfect tune, but Melly and Samuel were the
performers. Mulder's musical gifts were best suited
for being the audience.
  
This was his favorite room. His books lined the
walls, so they'd called it the library, although
Mulder was usually relegated to the desk or the
comfortable chair in the corner.  The piano had been
his present to Melissa, but the other instruments
were Samuel's. If it had strings or keys, Sam could
play it. What begin as violin and piano lessons when
he was five had moved on to cello and guitar and, to
his music tutor's horror, banjo and harmonica.  There
was even an accordion Mulder had agreed to in some
fit of overindulgent insanity.  
  
Two wooden easels stood near the windows where they
could catch the morning sun. One - Melly's - was
empty, and her boxes of oil paints and brushes had
been removed. A few of her paintings still hung on 
the walls, but the unfinished ones had been stored
away. Like the quilt on the bed the night before, her
paint-splattered easel had 'accidentally' been left
behind like skeletal remains.
  
"Did Melissa draw this as well?" Dana asked, pausing
in front of the other easel.  
  
On the pad was a detailed charcoal sketch of a man, a
teenage boy, and a dog in the woods. Snow covered the
ground and blanketed the tree branches, pristine
except for their footprints. The man carried a rifle,
and the basset hound loped ahead of them in pursuit
of a rabbit, his long ears flying and tongue lolling
happily.
  
"No, Samuel drew that," he answered. Mulder paused to
sip from his wineglass. "I told you he was talented.
Melly liked oils; Sam likes charcoal or ink. That's
Sam, my father, and Grace hunting."
  
"I do not know art, but this seems excellent. I can
feel the chill in the air, sense their excitement. It
is almost as if I was there."
  
Mulder set his glass on a table and joined her at the
window.
  
"He has a gift. He draws what he sees, just like he
plays whatever he hears. We've published some of his
sketches, and there are probably more," Mulder
speculated, folding down the sheets of paper that had
been flipped over the top of the easel. "Poppy," he
told her, showing her the sketch of a tall, pretty,
pregnant mulatto woman standing on the back porch
with a basket of laundry. Behind her, on the
clothesline, long rows of sheets billowed in the 
wind.
  
He flipped again, and grinned. "Me," he admitted,
showing her a man in an officer's uniform astride a
horse, looking heroic. The picture was drawn from the
perspective of a small child, making the rider seem
god-like. "A little dramatic, but me."
  
He folded another sheet down, then stopped, his grin
going from indulgent to wistful as he saw the last
drawing. It was a woman in a long nightgown standing
at the window where they now stood. Her dark hair was
down, falling over her shoulders, and one hand rested
on her pregnant belly as she stared through the
glass, watching for him to come home. 
  
"Melly," he said with difficulty, caught off-guard.
"That's- I didn't know this was here. I've shown you
photographs, but this looks more like her.  That's
Melly, right before... The day before she died. Sam
drew this for me. That's our Sarah," he added,
rubbing his fingertip over the figure's belly,
smudging the charcoal lines.
  
"I did not realize she was so far along."
  
"Seven months," he said, looking away from the
drawing. 
  
"She was very beautiful."
  
"Yes, she was."
  
"Mr. Mulder..." she began soothingly.
  
"No, it's not that. Melly's been gone for fifteen
months. It hurts, but the wound is not as raw as it
once was. I love her and I miss her, but it's more
that Samuel drew this. I know what he must have bee
thinking, feeling as he sketched her. As he waited
for me to come home. I miss him so much," he said
hoarsely.
  
"I know you do."
  
She put her head on his chest and her arms around his
waist, staying there until someone in the doorway
cleared her throat, making her presence known.
  
Mulder glanced up, let go of Dana, and stepped back,
realizing his housekeeper had returned. "Poppy. 
Hello."
  
He might have hugged her, or at least shaken her
hand, had Dana not been there. He didn't want to give
Dana the wrong idea, and regardless, Poppy was
keeping her distance, watching Dana the way one sized
up fellow bidders at the auction.
  
"It's not right: me staying home," Poppy answered
tersely, shifting the toddler she carried from one
hip to the other. "I belong here."
  
She still wore her work uniform: a black dress, a
starched white apron, and a white kerchief covering
her black hair. She was a striking woman in her mid-
thirties - an octoroon, with African, Indian, and
mostly white blood.  She was tall, with high
cheekbones, skin the color of cafe au lait, and dark,
vigilant eyes. An ex-slave, she was a competent and
loyal housekeeper, but she lacked the dignity and
seemingly effortless efficiency most senior house
servants possessed. Rather, there was a high-strung
intensity about Poppy, as though she was always at
the edge of a storm.  Like Waterston's mistress,
Dori, Poppy's mother had been Haitian and the slave
mistress of a white plantation owner. And the
greatest Voodoo priestess of her time, at least
according to Poppy.
  
"We're always glad to have you," he responded. "Dana
told me there was a misunderstanding. About Sam. I'm,
I'm sorry. Are you all right?"
  
She shook her head brusquely, not wanting to discuss
it in front of Dana. "There anything I can get you,
sir?"
  
Poppy had once caught him perched on his parents'
dining room table shrieking like a girl and about to
wet his trousers because there was a spider on the
floor. He'd been five, and it had been a big spider.
Poppy, seven, had joined him, and also refused to
come down until Sarah smashed the spider with her
shoe and rescued them. Needless to say, he was only
'sir' in public.
  
"No, we were just looking at some of Sam's drawings.
 Did you know he'd sketched you?"
  
"No. Sir. I did not, sir. Can I have my girl here?"
She gestured to the light-skinned, dark-haired
toddler she carried. "Just for today. There ain't
nobody to look after her right now, and she won't be
no trouble." 
  
"That is fine," Dana answered. "For today."
  
Instead of accepting that, Poppy waited for Mulder to
speak.
  
Mulder looked at the pretty little girl, feeling
another thread being pulled from the threadbare
fabric inside him. Sam had told him Poppy had given
birth to an illegitimate baby, but it was unsettling
seeing the child for the first time.
  
That should have been his daughter, but it wasn't.
  
"What's her name?" he asked.
  
"I been calling her Sadie," Poppy responded, her
accent similar to Melly's soft Tennessee drawl. 
  
He nodded. "That's a nice name."
  
She shifted the toddler a second time, seeming
awkward, and waited for him to speak again.
  
"It's fine, Poppy," he said eventually. "You know me
better than that."
  
Poppy nodded. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Good to have
you home again. Congratulations about your daughter.
Ring if you need me.  Ma'am," she added in
afterthought.
  
"Is she married?" Dana asked when they were alone
again. "Poppy?"
  
"No, she isn't married," he answered. "She was Sam's
nurse, Dana.  She's been very loyal to us over the
years. She's family. I'm not dismissing her for
making a mistake."
  
"No, of course. I understand," Dana responded, and
then asked, "How old is her daughter?"
  
"Fifteen months," he answered cautiously.
  
"Oh."
  
"I'm not the father, Dana."
  
"I had not yet considered that you might be," Dana
said thoughtfully. "She thinks Emily is your
daughter, though."
  
"Yes. Poppy is Melissa and Sarah's half-sister, so
she actually thinks Emily is her half-niece by
marriage." 
  
A crease appeared between Dana's eyebrows as she
tried to follow that tangled genealogy. 
  
"Poppy's daughter was born the night Melly died. 
That's where Poppy was and why she thought I might
not want to see her child. I don't care if she brings
the baby to work, and she knows I wouldn't dismiss
her - not for anything short of murder." He clapped
his hands together, which sounded overly loud in the
quiet library. "Well, I think I should get back to
work. Have a nice afternoon."
  
  *~*~*~* 
  
He was in his office by twelve-thirty, and out the
door again as soon as the last edition rolled off the
presses at four.
  
"I'm looking for the lady of the house," he announced
in a bad cockney accent, keeping his head down and
hiding under the top hat and livery he'd borrowed
from the groom. 
   
Luckily, the maid who answered the front door was the
same one who'd been polishing the silver earlier, and
she didn't recognize him. And, though it didn't speak
well of her powers of observation, she didn't
recognize her employer's horses and buggy, either.  
  
"Of course, sir.  Just a moment, please."
  
Mulder struggled not to laugh and tightened the reins
as Athos and Porthos began to fidget, knowing
something was afoot.
  
A minute later, Dana appeared, taking off her white
apron and dusting flour from her hands.
  
"Yes, sir?" she answered politely. "How can I help
you?"
  
"Are you the lady of the house?" he asked, barely
understandable.
  
"I suppose I am. How can I help you?"
   
"Is your husband here?"
   
"He is at his office. Is there something I can do for
you, sir?"
  
"Love, you can climb in, come with me to the heath,
strip off me clothes, climb on, and make a man out of
me."
  
She blinked, then gaped until he raised his head,
grinning wickedly.
  
"Mr. Mulder?  You are awful!"
  
"Climb in," he responded, taking off the hat and
jacket, and leaning down to offer his hand.  
  
"Dinner-"
  
"Is almost ready; I know.  Just for a few minutes.
You keep asking about DC. I thought you'd like to see
it since the rain's finally stopped. Is Emily all
right?"
  
"I just fed her."
  
"I missed it," he said regretfully as she settled in,
covering her full skirt with the lap blanket as they
began their tour.  
  
Aside from being the seat of democracy, Washington
boasted the finest collection of potholes and
whorehouses in the nation. A week seldom passed
without a body being found floating in the canal or a
political scandal hitting the front page. If a man
wanted a case of the French Pox or to sell a load of
junk railroad bonds, DC was the place. Mulder saw it
for what it was - the powerful center of a crippled
government struggling to rebuild itself - but he
tried not to jade Dana's introduction to her new 
home.
  
"That's The White House," he told her as they reached
Pennsylvania and turned right down the broad, muddy
street. "Where the President lives," he added as they
passed. "There was a good swimming hole on the south
side until the Army started using it as pasture land
for cows during the war." 
  
She twisted from side to side to see, excited and
peppering him with a dozen questions per block.  
  
He showed her the new Treasury Building, then made a
side trip, remembering she'd liked a ghost story he'd
heard and told her during their honeymoon. 
Supposedly, when the ship was being built, a hapless
iron-worker had been trapped alive between the dual
hulls, and, in the interest of economy, left there.
The crewmen swore they could still hear the worker
tapping with his hammer to be let out. On a whim, he
and Dana had taken a lantern and investigated, to no
avail.
  
"That's the Octagon house," he told her, slowing the
horses so she could look. "President James Madison
lived there for a time. It has six sides, but eight
angles, hence 'the Octagon house.' Some say it's
haunted. There's a dead Colonel who rings bells, and,
sometimes, the ghost of a murdered slave girl who
screams."
  
"These are musical ghosts?" she said skeptically.
  
"Are you making fun of me?"
    
"Well, yes," she admitted.  
  
He cleared his throat, turned a corner, and
continued, "All these are newspapers. This part of
Pennsylvania Avenue is called Newspaper Row. The
Washington Post, The Washington Times... We don't
like them. That's Tom Bradley's Saloon, where my
father bought me my first drink of whiskey. I used to
meet him for lunch near here when I was young."
  
"Did your parents live close by?"
  
"No, my mother and stepfather have a house in
Georgetown when Congress is in session. I suppose
Mother still has it. They actually live in Boston."
  
"Your mother has remarried?"
  
"Yes," he said tightly, then changed the subject. "If
we would keep going, we'd pass Center Market and
eventually get to the U.S. Capitol Building, but
we'll do that another day. Poppy can show you where
the Market is. I thought you might like to stop here,
though, before we return home."
  
"What is here?"
  
"The Washington Evening Star. Would you like to see 
my paper? Some of the typesetters are still cleaning
up, but the reporters and the office staff are gone.
I thought you might like the penny tour while it's
fairly quiet."
  
He tied the horses to the hitching post in front of
the building and helped her down.  
  
Byers was carrying a sheaf of papers across the
lobby, which he dropped and stopped short when he saw
them. He turned his head sideways, looking like a
reddish Labrador Retriever who'd heard a funny noise.
Mulder's editor-in-chief, by comparison, made Mulder
look like Romeo with the ladies. 
   
"Dana, this is John Byers. He's the man who really
runs things around here."
  
"John Byers," Byers repeated when he was able to talk
again, still pumping her hand. "My name is John
Byers."
  
"Byers is also the soul of wit and grace," Mulder
commented, and Byers finally let go of Dana's hand.
  
She flexed it, getting the blood flowing again. "I am
pleased to meet you, Mr. Byers."
  
"You are Irish. My mother was Irish," Byers
responded, then launched into a long discourse in
gobbledy-guck.
  
He and Dana were mid 'guck' when Mulder gave him a
stern look and the tour continued in English, Byers
at their heels.
  
"The lobby, obviously. My office." He showed her the
cluttered desk and collection of junk and dust, then
moved on. "The first floor is almost all offices:
circulation, advertising, accounting. In the back are
the loading docks. Wagons take each edition to the
street corners for the newsboys to sell, to the train
deport to be shipped locally, and to the boat docks 
to go overseas."
  
He opened the door to the stairs, offering Dana his
arm as they climbed.
  
"This is where the paper is actually printed. Byers
approves all the stories and images, then the
typesetters-" 
       
Like a badger popping up from his hole, an almost
bald, scruffy head appeared from behind one of the
machines. Frohike pursed his lips, whistling softly.
"I should have come to lunch. Hello, pretty lady."
  
"Don't touch him," Mulder warned. "You don't know
where he's been. Dana, meet Melvin Frohike. He was
part of the deal with I bought the paper: I had to
take him. Rumor has it he sleeps underneath one of
the presses at night and lives on the raw flesh of
apprentice typesetters. Don't ever believe anything
he says."
  
Frohike grinned and offered his filthy hand, and,
after examining it, she shook it. Dana was nothing if
not a good sport.
  
They showed her how the metal type was set and, after
the presses ran, broken down to be cleaned and
reused. At the engravers' benches, Frohike explained
how sketches were carefully transferred and then
carved into pieces of wood or metal in order to be
printed. It was an exacting craft, since one tiny
mistake made the whole engraving unusable.
  
"Samuel's," Mulder said, putting one hand on her back
and pointing to the framed prints hanging on the wall
above one bench. "Most drawings you see in a
newspaper or magazine are drawn by one man and then
engraved by several others, so they're unsigned. He
signs his, since he does all the drawing and carving
himself."
  
"Did you meet Samuel?" Frohike asked, which was a
roundabout way of asking how long she'd known Mulder.
  
"I have not met him yet," she answered.  
  
Frohike and Byers waited expectantly, but she didn't
elaborate.   
  
"I understand there's a new baby at your house," he
tried.
  
"She's Emily, she's almost three months old, and
she's beautiful, now stop fishing for information and
show her the presses," Mulder intervened.
  
The presses weren't running or he wouldn't have
allowed her in the room with them. If the hem of her
skirt or sleeve accidentally got caught in one of the
huge machines, it would pull her in. Most of the men
who ran the presses had nicknames like 'Stubby' for a
good reason. No one in a skirt or below the age of
fourteen - or however old Samuel happened to be - was
allowed near the presses.
  
The third floor was almost deserted as they walked
through, and scribbled, crumpled papers littered the
floor, waiting for the janitor's broom. Reporters
were at their desks at six in the morning and gone by
two. Once the presses ran and they had tomorrow's
assignments, their job was over until the next day.  
  
"A.P.?" Dana asked, seeing the sign as they reached
the top of the building.
  
"Associated Press." he explained, raising his voice
to be heard over the manic tapping of the telegraph
machines. "Stories come into this office from all
over the country and then are sent out by telegraph.
If a ship comes into port with an interesting
article from Europe or Brazil or China, we can send
it to another US city over the telegraph and it's
there in seconds."
  
"And soon, to and from Europe," a gangly blond man
told them, sidling over to meet Dana. 
  
"That's right. The ship we were on, The Great
Eastern, was on its way to New York to lay telegraph
cable across the Atlantic. If it's successful, we'll
be able to transmit messages instantly to London and
Liverpool. To Dublin," Mulder added, smiling at her.
This was his element. As awkward as he felt dealing
with people, sometimes, he felt equally at ease with 
facts and words.   
  
"Mr. Langly," the man introduced himself, since
Mulder had forgotten.   
  
"Dana Waterston," she said, then quickly corrected,
"Dana Mulder."
  
To cover the awkward pause that followed, Mulder had
her sit at one of the vacant telegraph machines,
explaining how it and Morse code worked. "Langly can
even tell you the name of the operator hundreds of
miles away who's sending the telegram to him, just by
listening."
  
"I know their dots and dashes," Langly said
cryptically.
  
"Same way you tell a boy kitten from a girl kitten,"
Mulder whispered to her, and she smiled. "Go ahead,
press the key."
  
She did, sending a single electronic click amid the
thousands of others in the room.
  
"Someone just heard that in New York," he told her.
  
"Opie heard it," Langly supplied.
  
Dana stared uncertainly at the machine. "In New York?
Are you teasing me again, Mr. Mulder?"
  
"I promise I'm not. Press it again; confuse Opie to
death."  
  
He stepped back, watching Langly and Byers show her
the protocol for sending a message. She pressed the
key a few more times, fascinated.
  
"She loves you," Frohike observed quietly. "Of course
she loves you. All the pretty ones do. Damn it, at
first I thought I had a chance with her. Alas, my
poor heart is breaking." 
  
"Oh, hush up," Mulder said, laughing and watching 
her.
  
  *~*~*~*
   
It was late. The fire snapped and crackled, and
occasionally a log split and disintegrated into
molten-orange coals.  
  
He sat on the floor near the hearth in their bedroom,
leaning back against the sofa with his bare legs
outstretched. Dana was facing him, one knee on either
side of his hips with a blanket loosely draped around
her. No gentleman would let a lady shiver in bed as
he made love to her. The proper thing to do was pick
her up, carry her to the fire, and make love to her
there.
  
"Are your feet warm now?" he murmured, outlining the
ridge of her collarbone with his lips.
  
"They are, thank you.  Would you like to feel?"
  
He slid his hands under the blanket, down her
backbone, and to the hot flesh of her backside. "Yes,
I would. I think I'll start here and work my way
down. I want to be thorough," He stroked the backs of
her thighs, then slipped his fingers between them.
"And check-" He slid his hands higher, urging her
legs apart. "Every-" Higher, to the soft, damp patch
of hair. "Inch," he finished huskily. 
  
Watching her face change as he touched her was
intoxicatingly erotic. She - this - was opium in
female form: just as dangerous and twice as 
addictive.
  
He tugged at the blanket and it fell to the floor,
leaving her bare in the firelight. Her cool breasts
grazed his chest, a delicious contrast to the warmth
of her back and the hotness inside her. At his
request, she'd left her hair down, and it hung almost
to her waist in thick auburn waves. It shimmered as
she moved, and was as soft as silk as he ran his
fingers through it.
  
"There's a science called phrenology that says you
can tell someone's personality by the shape of their
skull," he whispered, running one hand over her
scalp. "For instance, this ridge at the back
indicates physical lust, and above it, this one, a
love for children and family. Loyalty. Here is
kindness, intelligence, idealism, and this:
stubbornness. It is frighteningly large."
  
She pulled away, trailing her index finger down his
profile to his lips. "That is where I bumped my head
this morning, Mr. Mulder."
  
"Thank God. I was worried." He sighed, pretending to
be relieved.
   
"You are making up this phrenology science."
  
"Are you calling me a liar?"
  
"No, sir, only a creative truth-teller."
  
He smirked, kissing her fingertip. "No, it's true.
Please don't start calling me 'sir.' 'Mr. Mulder' is 
bad enough.  Can't I be 'Mulder,' just this once?" 
  
She leaned forward, her hips poised over his.
"'Malda,'" she murmured into his ear, "Is 'gentle' in
my language, and 'modhar' is 'soft.'
  
"Always 'malda,' I promise. You know that. I'm not
'modhar,' though."
  
She started to get up, thinking he wanted to go back
to bed. 
  
"No, like this. Here. Just like this."
  
"Here?"
  
"Here." 
  
He positioned and guided her hips slowly down, biting
his lip as her inner muscles enveloped him. She
hesitated, then slid down farther, a little at a
time, until her hips rested flush against his. She
stopped, breathing heavily as her body adjusted. 
  
"Oh, God. Jesus, Dana." He groaned at the sensation
of being a thousand kisses deep inside her.
  
He exhaled through his teeth, letting his head fall
back on the sofa cushion. When she shifted, he
gasped, putting his hands on her hips and rocking her
against him again.  
  
"Like that. That's nice," he whispered to her. "So
nice. Don't stop." 
  
She let him guide her into a slow rhythm, then, once
she knew what he wanted, rested her hands on his
shoulders as her hips rose and fell over his. Mulder
raised his head, opening his eyes to watch her,
fascinated. 
    
"You are beautiful," he murmured in awe. A fine sheen
of perspiration covered her breasts, and her mouth
moved silently as she rocked, exhaling with each
thrust. "You are. I like watching you."
  
She tilted her hips slightly, changing the angle and
taking him deeper inside her.
  
"Don't stop, Dana. Make love to me."
  
She murmured something in Gaelic that sounded like
his name, resting her forehead against his shoulder.
He put his arms around her, closing his eyes.   
  
"Don't stop," he told her again, with increasing
urgency.  
  
Her thighs trembled, and her breath was hot and
labored against his shoulder, but she didn't stop.
He gritted his teeth as the pressure inside him
built, blocking out every other sensation. Then,
suddenly, he felt her vaginal muscles spasm and heard
her moan in pleasure. 
  
She went limp against him, and, his arms still around
her, he quickly lowered them both to the floor,
laying Dana on her back, and entered her again,
easily sliding inside. "To hard?" he asked, feeling
her hips rising to meet each desperate thrust. 
  
If there was an answer, he didn't hear it. A dozen
more deep thrusts and her fingernails dug into his
shoulders as it happened again: a quick series of
inner contractions, more powerful this time. His
response was an ineloquent curse and release so
intense he saw stars.
  
One of life's mysteries solved, he realized, once he
could think again. That, he assumed, had been the
female orgasm. 
  
She opened her eyes, looking flushed and uncertain in
the firelight.
  
"It's fine," he assured her, pushing her hair back
from her face. "I want you to like this. Did you?"  
  
She nodded breathlessly, licking her swollen lips.
  
"So did I."
  
  *~*~*~*
  
"Why, Dana?" he asked, spooning up behind her, and
closing his eyes. In the spirit of chivalry, he
should have swept her up in his arms and carried her
back to bed, but Sir Lancelot must be much steadier
on his feet after intimacy. Mulder had settled for
leading her by the hand, getting her a drink of
water, and tucking her in. "Why did you do it?"
  
"In front of the fire? Because you asked me to, Mr.
Mulder," she mumbled back, wanting to sleep.
  
"No, why did you marry me?" he clarified, his old
insecurity rearing its head again.
  
She sighed. "Again, you asked."
  
"No, there's no shortage of men who would have asked.
Why me? Because I was your friend? Because I was
there?"
  
"Because you wanted me."
  
"Was it just that? Dr. Waterston was unfaithful and
you knew I would not be?"
  
Dana didn't respond for a long time, and he thought
he'd upset her by mentioning Waterston. Except for
slipping at the newspaper this evening, she hadn't
mentioned him since they'd left Savannah, so neither
had he.
     
"Have you ever wondered if there is something more?"
she finally whispered. "Have you ever lain in bed at 
night and stared up into the darkness and wondered if
what you have is all there is to life?"
  
He stroked her arm reassuringly, then, instead of
answering, asked her if she wanted him to bring Emily
to their bed for a little while. The nursery was at
the other end of the upstairs hall, so they couldn't
hear the baby unless she shrieked, and it was almost
time for her to nurse again.  
  
By the time he'd returned with the Emily and worked
up enough courage to answer her question, Dana was
asleep."
  
  *~*~*~*
  
End: Paracelsus V