Begin: Paracelsus IV *~*~*~* Dear Melly, It's mid-morning, and I've cleared a place amid the wreckage of my office to write. As I walked through the building a few minutes ago, I tried to count the empty desks and machines, and there were more than I could stand to think about. "Gettysburg," someone whispered of Morgan's vacant chair. The two Chinese engravers: Wong and Kim - "Shiloh," Frohike answered softly. Spotnitz, Gilligan, and Goodwin? "Bull Run." Bowman, Gordon? "Spotsylvania." And "Antietam" and "Fredericksburg" and "Vicksburg" and "Andersonville" on and on until I stopped asking, came to my office, and locked the door. The doctors are calling it Da Costa's syndrome, soldier's heart, irritable heart, nostalgia, or effort syndrome – all names for the way the war continues inside a soldier long after it has ended on the battlefields. I wonder how many men I have killed. Hundreds at least, and thousands, perhaps. I see their faces at night as I try to sleep. I hear the blood gurgling in their throats and feel the sting of gunpowder in my nostrils. I wonder how many of my own soldiers I have watched die – either in battle or in the days afterward. They haunt me too: their gray faces, their cracked lips, the death rattle in their chests. In my dreams I hear the wounded horses screaming and feel men's fingers clutching at my boots, croaking out "water" as they die slowly under the hot sun. I wonder how I am not completely insane, and yet I know every soldier who survived the war wonders the same thing. We do not speak of it, but we do. And we are the fortunate ones. A quarter-million husbands and fathers and brothers and sons who should be living are now dead. I wonder if I should have been counted among them, and, through some cosmic mistake, was not. I have it often: that unsettled, queasy sense that my life has wandered not just off the path, but off the map, and I am someplace I was never intended to be at the moment, but have been before. Or perhaps I'm mistaking indigestion and a case of soldier's heart for spiritual insight. Regardless, this is the wreckage. Those left behind can lie down and wait for Death, or we can grieve, gather what remains, and try to rebuild. The opposite of war isn't peace, Melly. It's creation. I spent months thinking I was looking for peace, but what I really needed was a foundation on which to rebuild. I needed a landmark to guide me in this lonely, uncharted, hellish world if I was to find my way home. I married Dana for two reasons: I was desperate, and she was exactly what I needed. At the time, I realized neither, and now I realize both. Mulder *~*~*~* The sum instruction he'd received in marital relations was Melly's father's wedding night advice: "She's pregnant, you son-of-a-bitch; leave her the hell alone." His own father, not far from being a grandfather, had assumed Mulder knew all he needed to of the fairer sex. In truth, Mulder had once briefly encountered the anatomical basics necessary to create a child, though Samuel's conception had been an inch short of immaculate. Melly had been crying, he'd been comforting, she'd kissed him, and three minutes later, he'd been rebuttoning, still uncertain as to exactly what had happened. Some paternal wisdom and reassurance would have been welcome. He remembered waiting in his bedroom in his parent's house after the wedding reception, stomach knotting, palms sweating, not sure if he should undress or not, sit in a chair, lie on the bed, or stand. He'd paced for what seemed like hours until his mother brought Melly to him, kissed him on the cheek without looking him in the eyes, and closed the door on her way out. A nervous, inexperienced groom, and a queasy, shy, frightened fifteen year-old bride hadn't made for conjugal bliss – then or in the future. Over the years, he'd invested in numerous advice manuals for new grooms, most of which were written in language so vague and flowery he wasn't sure if he was supposed to kiss and caress a woman's body or pluck it and put it in a vase. Although the illustrations were interesting, pornographic novels were equally unhelpful with their enthusiastic, vulgar descriptions of rapture and ravishment. He seldom wanted to ravish anyone. He just wanted to love a woman at night as easily and naturally as he did during the day. To answer Dana's question – yes, he had laid awake at night, stared at the ceiling as Melly slept, and wondered if there was something more. As he massaged her back, Dana shifted and stretched, sighing contentedly as she slept. Her hair was tousled and fell in long, red tangles over the pillow. He could smell the night on her: the sweet, soft scent of Emily and midnight feedings, the salty, acidic odor of sweat and semen from him, and the musky feminine scent designed to bypass a man's reason. His hands crept lower, pushing the blankets down, and passed in long, slow strokes over her bare backside and thighs. The lamp on the night stand flickered against the predawn darkness, making the transparent hairs on her back and shoulders glisten against her pale skin. He told her to turn over, examining the half-dozen faint red stretch marks across her hipbones, the soft weight of her breasts, the old white scars on her knees from unnamed childhood adventures, and the light scattering of freckles on her nose. She was real, laid out for him across the sheets of his bed in beautiful, natural imperfection. Dana inhaled, opening her eyes, blinking, then blushed in embarrassment. "You were watching me again," she mumbled, rolling away. He put his hand on her hip, pulling her back. "I was. And I wasn't finished." Under his intense gaze, the blush spread from her face down to her chest. "Mr. Mulder…" she began sleepily, batting him away. "What? I can't watch my wife if I want to?" he asked, tracing a lazy line with his finger from the hollow of her throat, between her breasts, over her stomach, and down between her thighs. "I do," he murmured, gently placing her wrists above her head with his free hand, for the first time taking her up on her previous offer to hold her down. "I want to watch you. I've seen you watching me when we make love." She shook her head "no," wetting her lips and shifting her hips as he rubbed. "No, you haven't watched me, or no, you don't want me to watch you?" "No, I…" she whispered, moaning and closing her eyes when he found her clitoris. "No, you don't like my fingers? I'm sorry. Maybe I should use my mouth," he offered, and felt her inner muscles contract in anticipation. "Maybe tonight? Would you like that? I'm sure a proper married lady never thinks about things like that: a man's tongue between her legs." He didn't get a response, but he hadn't expected one. If Dana had said "oh yes – please do it now, Mr. Mulder," he would have died of mortification. He was still new to playing at lovemaking, and his bravado was mostly smoke and little fire. He was learning though, and he'd always been a quick study. He lowered his head, feeling her tense again as his lips worked their way down her stomach. At the last minute, he changed directions, laughing at her frustration, and instead took her nipple deep into his mouth. He slid his fingers inside her, then back to her clitoris again. Inside and back; inside and back, then he switched breasts, letting go of her wrists so she could touch him. His plan to kiss her goodbye before he left for work had gotten out of hand, as it did most mornings. Abandoning the idea of watching her, he stripped off his clothes and joined her in bed, wondering why he'd bothered to dress in the first place. She inhaled sharply as he penetrated, her fingernails digging into his shoulders. "Sore?" "Sore. Please be careful." "Yes," he promised, rolling them so they were facing each other, her top leg over his hips. Each thrust was barely more than a tilt of his hips, slow and shallow. "Nice?" She nodded that it was, relaxing. Mulder liked early morning lovemaking – and late morning and midday and afternoon and evening and midnight lovemaking – but Dana preferred to speak, move, and think as little as possible before six a.m. She'd never refused or resisted, but she was more cooperative if he didn't ask her to do anything that required actually waking up before dawn. As they sunk into the hypnotic, instinctive rhythm, he heard the back door open and footsteps downstairs, and assumed it was Poppy arriving early. Mulder exhaled and focused on Dana, ignoring the feet ascending the stairs. It was just Poppy checking on Emily. It was as the shoes passed the nursery and approached their bedroom that he stopped, looking uncertainly at Dana. After a few more unsuccessful efforts at sabotaging his love life, Poppy avoided the master bedroom – and bed - at all costs. She wasn't likely to interrupt unless it was to throw cold water on them as a last resort. Pulling away, he scrambling for the pistol in the top drawer of the night stand, raising it as the door swung open. Without hesitation, an old man stormed in, waving a folded newspaper at Mulder. "What the hell is this, Fox?" he demanded, gesturing to the paper with his cigarette. Mulder exhaled and lowered the pistol. "Today's news; tomorrow's bird cage liner," he answered, still propped up on elbow, shielding Dana behind him. "Greetings, Uncle-Father. It's early. Shouldn't you still be in bed with your brother's wife?" "Don't start your smart mouth with me, boy," he snapped. "Because I won't stand for it." "Then, by all means, leave, Uncle Spender." "My name is Mulder – the same as yours." His uncle glared at him. "And you can stop the noble, wronged son act. You aren't Hamlet." "Your name isn't ‘Mulder' because my grandfather never married your mother. And you aren't my father. And I'm not a boy. And if you ever barge into my house again, I'll shoot you like the cowardly bastard you are and not a soul will miss you." Spender hesitated, seeming to realize Mulder meant what he had said. "What is this?" he asked again, a little less demanding as he brandished the paper. Sitting up and pulling a blanket across his lap, Mulder held the newspaper close to the lamp, reading the advertisement at the bottom of page two. "‘Seeking a certain Negro woman named Mary Anne. Sold in Washington to Thomas Carberry of Manassas, VA for $900 February 8, 1861. Also Negro girl named Julie, age 8, sold to same for $50.' It's an ex-slave looking for his wife and daughter. What business is it of yours?" "First of all, since when do you accept ads from Negroes? They can't even read-" "First of all, I own the paper. I can take or not take ads from anyone I like." Spender bristled, then paused to take a drag from his cigarette and change his tact. "Your mother wants you at dinner tonight. Eight o'clock. You and whoever this Irish peasant woman is that you've married. And she wants to know why her only son has been home two weeks and she hasn't seen him or her new granddaughter." "I have sent her messages," he answered tightly. "Tonight at eight," the old man snapped. He sniffed the air and frowned distastefully as he caught the scent of lovemaking. He glanced at Dana in disgust, then stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Mulder sighed in exasperation and sank back down, staring the ceiling. "That was my stepfather," he muttered. "Yes, I gathered that," she answered. *~*~*~* He'd once watched copper wire being made, how a piece of metal was spun into a gossamer thread. That was how he felt now: like something that began as solid, but was now being pulled impossibly spider-web thin. Any second, he'd snap in two and go drifting off with the icy winter wind. Underneath the table, out of sight, Dana put her hand on his thigh, reassuring him. He covered her hand with his, squeezing gently, and the din of a half-dozen empty dinner party conversations faded to background noise. She glanced at him and smiled like the Mona Lisa – mysterious, gentle, intimate – and he exhaled. He removed his hand and she removed hers, then turned back to pretend she was enraptured by the endless, pointless story some foreign ambassador was telling over dessert. The clock struck nine, and the guests rose from the table in unison and assumed their choreographed roles in the parlor. This was his mother's element, and people put on their best eveningwear and manners for her dinner parties. She had been Mrs. Senator Mulder, and, if his stepfather had his way, she would soon be again. Teena Mulder's pedigree opened doors and pockets all along the east coast that would otherwise been forever closed to Senator Mulder's bastard half-brother. She was wealthy, charming, and, approaching fifty, still elegantly beautiful. Mulder could understand why his Uncle Spender married her. He just couldn't understand why his mother had married him. Servants brought delicate crystal goblets of wine for the ladies and brandy for the gentlemen. Mulder took the fullest snifter, watching his stepfather smoking and politicking across the room, and silently told himself "only half an hour more" and he could leave. He found a chair in the corner of the crowded room and counted down the minutes as he sipped his drink. A maid signaled Dana, who rose and moved away. Emily must be awake and hungry. The cacophony of polite chatter paused, eyeing her suspiciously. No one had cut her, but no one would – not tonight. They'd take note so they could tear her to shreds over tea tomorrow in their lush salons. Mulder knew how this game was played. She was an outsider: a pretty, mysterious outsider who'd somehow come to be married to Senator Mulder's only son, obviously because he had to marry her. Everyone knew he'd been devastated by Melly's death – "Such a tragedy," they said idly, "But to be expected." Everyone could count: Emily had been conceived six months after Melissa had died. "Opportunist," they silently dubbed Dana. "Shameful: preying on a grieving widower." Everyone knew about Sarah, and that Sam had come five months after he'd married Melly. Then there was the question of Poppy's baby. They sighed and gestured in leisurely distress. "When will Fox learn?" Mulder gritted his teeth and took another snifter of brandy from the tray as the servant passed. "Come sit by me," his mother offered, and he went to her, sitting on the floor at her feet and stretching his legs out across the rug. This was his childhood home; he could sprawl on the floor during a party if he liked. "Are you enjoying yourself, Mother?" he asked dutifully, looking up at her. It was the first time they'd spoken since he arrived, which meant it was the third time they'd spoken since Melly's funeral. "I am. You seem so sad, though." "We haven't really been out among people – Dana and I," he fibbed. They'd had dinner with the Byers family last week. "It's difficult." "Of course it is. So many things have changed." "Yes," he answered softly, nuzzling her hand gratefully as she ran her fingers through his hair like she had when he was a boy. "Everything has changed. These drapes are new. And the rugs. I knew you'd notice. And, of course, my dress." "Your dress is lovely, Mother," he answered automatically, leaning against the rustling lilac fabric of her skirt as she shifted her attention to another of her guests. His mother always smelled like a purple flower: violets or lavender or maybe just all purple flowers. It was comforting to be close. Occasionally, she stroked his hair, lulling him, so he stayed like a dog waiting for a crumb. "Fox," she repeated, catching his attention. "Where is my beautiful daughter-in-law?" "Upstairs with the baby, I believe." His mother's eyes widened, and she leaned down. "You left Melissa alone with the baby?" she chastised him. "Dana," he whispered back, "Is fine with Emily." She blinked, seeming momentarily confused. "Of course. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude. Yes. Dana," she said to herself. "Your wife is Dana. The baby is Emily." "Yes. I think she's finally awake. Do you want me to check?" She nodded, so he got to his feet, feeling the pleasant warmth of the brandy tingling his toes and fingertips. She tilted her cheek for a kiss, squeezing his hand before he left the parlor. As he climbed, he remembered waiting, terrified, on the staircase with his father while Sam was being born. They'd started out in the parlor, quite proper and trying to stay out of the way, but as the hours had passed and the tension built, edged closer and closer to the upstairs bedroom. Mulder could hear Melly pleading with the doctor to make the pains stop, and had gnawed his lower lip raw as dark began to creep into dawn. Maids rushed up and down the stairs, bringing towels and water and scissors and avoiding questions. "Soon," his father had assured him, trying to sound confident, and Mulder had chanted that word to himself, as comforted as if the prediction had come directly from God. Soon everything would be all right. He wanted to go home. He wasn't ready for this. Every nook and cranny was a memory. He felt the copper of his heart being drawn out again, groaning in pain and fraying as it was pulled thin. "My mother wants to see the baby again and then we're going," he told Dana decisively. "It's getting late." He nodded to the maid, who went to tell the butler to tell the footman to tell the driver to bring the carriage around. "You look nice. I don't think I've told you that tonight," he added, paying her the obligatory complement. "You do." The low neckline of her dinner dress showed off her shoulders and the tops of her breasts, pushed high by her corset. She was petite anyway, and while he'd liked the softness she'd had a month ago, the tape measure around her waist now met with her approval. The bodice fit like a glove, then spread out into a dozen yards of black taffeta. He'd supplied the jewelry this afternoon: a single large pearl suspended from a gold chain around her neck, and a pearl-seeded comb in her hair. He'd watched the maid putting Dana's hair up earlier, securing all the auburn curls with the one comb. He didn't know how that was possible, but he was looking forward to pulling it out and seeing her mane cascade down over her bare shoulders. "Thank you," she answered after he'd forgotten what he'd said. "I would ask if you are all right, but I know you are not." "No, I'm not." He'd watched Sarah die in this room, and spent his wedding night with Melissa in a bedroom down the hall. "Let's get this done and go home." She nodded, and following him and Emily down the stairs. When they reached the front hall, he felt her hand in his, steadying him. "Blue eyes," his mother commented, stroking Emily's chubby cheek. "But she looks like you, Fox." "Do you think?" he answered evasively. "I think she looks like Dana, except for the hair." A light covering of blonde wisps had finally made an appearance on Emily's head. "Do you want to hold her?" "Another time. My dress…" "Of course. Mother, everything was lovely, as always. We'll see you again soon. I want to get Dana and the baby home before it gets any colder outside." Or before he started screaming how surreally wrong this all was. She smiled sweetly. "You be careful. Have my Samuel to come give me a kiss before he leaves." Mulder leaned close, out of everyone else's hearing. "Sam hasn't come home from the war yet, Mother. He isn't with us tonight. We talked about this earlier." There it was again: that fleeting look of airy confusion in her eyes. "Of course. Yes, I remember now. Did Melissa come, then?" "Melly's dead, Mother. You were at her funeral." "Of course," she repeated, still smiling. *~*~*~* He helped Dana into the carriage, then handed Emily up to her and closed the door so they'd stay warm. It was raining again, and the drops felt like ice was creeping inside the collar of his topcoat. His uncle was on the porch, wishing the other guests well as they left, and Mulder waited until they were alone. "If you hurt her, I will kill you," Mulder said simply. That hadn't been a threat, just a statement of fact. Mulder turned away, climbed into the carriage, and knocked sharply on the roof for the driver to take them home. *~*~*~* He'd had too much to drink. He wasn't drunk, but he close, and Dana wasn't happy about that. He'd been fixated on pulling the comb out of her hair, and there was the tongue promise he'd made that morning. Obviously, neither was happening unless he wanted to get frostbite from her thighs. He couldn't say be blamed her; he wouldn't want to go to bed with him tonight, either. "I could do that if I had breasts," he mumbled, watching her from the doorway of the nursery. As he said them, those words made perfect sense to him. Maybe he was drunk. "I will buy you one first thing tomorrow," she answered tiredly, unbuttoning her dress. "No, I want two. I want them about…" He held up his hands, cupping them as though he was holding grapefruits. He checked the outline of Dana's breasts and resized to oranges. "Like this. Fair. Dark pink nipples." "You will have to take whatever the store has. Go to bed, Mr. Mulder." He yawned and ambled to their bedroom, stripping off his shoes and tuxedo as he went. He'd planned to wait for her and apologize, but tossed and turned and eventually fell into the confusing twilight maze between awake and asleep. *~*~*~* In his dream, the house was new; the paint had barely had time to dry. The rooms smelled of mortar and the wooden crates the furniture had been shipped in. After years of living with his parents, Melly had been delighted to have a house of her own, and had fabric swatches scattered everywhere, unable to choose. Mulder had just bought the fledgling Evening Star and ate, slept, and breathed newsprint and hot metal type. Samuel had been a six year-old, dark-haired bundle of energy and talent, and, that day, the sun had been shining. As always, his stomach growled as he came through the door. Mulder hadn't been much past what people still considered "a growing boy." "Dumplings," the cook informed him, slapping his hand away from the pot on the stove. "They'll fall if you mess with them. You won't die of hunger in ten minutes." Instead, he filched a biscuit from the pan and backed away, wagging his eyebrows at her as he took a bite and knowing he was being bad. "Where's my boy?" he asked around a mouthful of buttery goodness. "Upstairs asleep." "Asleep?" "He's taking a nap. He fell off the banister and hurt his arm earlier. Poppy went for the doctor, just to be careful. She says it's not broken, though." Mulder tossed the remainder of his biscuit to Grace and turned, hurrying toward the stairs with the puppy at his heels. "Miss Melissa's with him," the cook called after him, and Mulder walked faster. Sam's bedroom was empty, but he found him in the master bedroom, asleep with Melly on the high bed. He was glad to see she'd finally relaxed. She'd been up the last few nights, restless and fretful, and keeping him awake. Normally, he tried to sooth her fears, but by four that morning, after the millionth "what if, Fox" question, he'd had enough. No one was going to break into the house, he'd told her tersely. No one was going to look in their bedroom window, no one was going to spy through the keyhole, and no one was listening outside the door, as if there was anything happening to see or hear, anyway. "Stop being so silly, settle down, and go to sleep," he'd snapped from the sofa, and she'd huddled down in the bed, if not sleeping, at least being quiet enough for him to sleep. He'd intended to apologize at dinner. "You two make a pretty picture," he murmured, sitting on the mattress beside them and stroking Melly's shoulder. Melly didn't move. Her bottle of laudanum, a potent mixture of opium and alcohol, was on the night stand. The doctor had prescribed it to help her sleep, but she also took it when she was upset. And Samuel getting hurt would have upset her. She'd probably thought Mulder would be furious she'd "let" their son fall off the banister. Grace paced beside the bed, whining. Leaning over Melissa, Mulder unbuttoned and rolled up Sam's sleeve, examining the purple bruise on his forearm. Poppy was right; it was bad, but not broken. Instead of flinching or pulling away, his son coughed weakly, his lips blue. His stick-straight black hair stuck to his forehead in sweaty chunks, and beads of perspiration had collected on his nose. "Sam," Mulder said sharply. "Samuel," he repeated, his stomach tightening. When there was no response, he put his hands on the child's shoulders and shook him. Sam's head lolled, and he coughed again, having trouble breathing. Mulder sniffed his breath, detecting the sickening-sweet scent of laudanum. Two gut-wrenching days later, Samuel woke from the overdose, surprised he and Mother weren't together in Heaven like she'd told him they'd be. Because Daddy would be angry about his arm, of course. The doctors recommended Melly rest, and suggested another stay in the secluded, private mental asylum. Her first stay had been after she'd tried to drown Sam when he was three weeks old. *~*~*~* He opened his eyes as the clock downstairs chimed four, disoriented and still a little tipsy. He swung his legs over the edge of the mattress, licking his fuzzy teeth and scratching his bare chest sleepily. He seldom slept in the bed, and he never slept there alone. Melly liked him close, but not touching her, so he usually slept on the sofa across the room. Melly wasn't in the bed. Something was wrong. Samuel's bedroom was empty, as was the nursery across the hall. Mulder raised his candle and stared at the cheery wallpaper on the wall behind the crib, remembering which woman and baby it was he was searching for. Melly was dead. It was Dana and Emily who weren't in bed. Half awake, without the aid of reason or daylight, he imagined all the things that could have happened. Someone could have broken in and taken Dana and the baby. Some lunatic or rapist or murderer. She, she, she could have been carrying Emily in the darkness and fallen, knocking herself unconscious and unable to call for help. Or she could have just taken her daughter and left him. He checked the front door, found it locked, and stumbled to the back door, the floor under his feet changing from marble tile to plush rugs to smooth wooden planks as he reached the kitchen. Grace peeked out from behind the stove, whimpering and laying his muzzle flat on the floor. "Are they in here, boy?" he asked, looking around the dark and otherwise empty kitchen. "Dana?" From the other side of the bathroom door, water sloshed, lapping against the sides of the big bathtub he'd installed for Melly. "I am here," she called. "I am taking a bath." His throat tightened, choking off breath. "Where's the baby?" "She is with me." His heart beat faster. He rattled the knob, but the door was locked. "Open the door," he ordered. "Right now." This wasn't real. It wasn't happening again. He was still dreaming. Water splashed as a body shifted. "Just a minute." "Now, Melly!" "Mr. Mul-" He stepped back, gritted his teeth, and kicked open the door with his bare foot, splintering the wood. Dana was sitting up in the bathtub, holding Emily against her chest and staring at him like he was crazy. The water was still clear, and, in the candlelight, he could see her legs underneath the waves. No blood, and the baby started to cry. "What are you-" "Give him here," he demanded, snatching Emily from her and wrapping the infant in a towel. He jiggled the terrified baby, trying to sooth her. "It's okay. It's okay; I have you. It'll be all right." "What is wrong? We smelled like smoke from the party. She would not sleep, so we were taking a bath." "I was- I, uh…" He swallowed, realizing what he'd done. Not knowing what else to do, he turned away, carrying Emily blindly through the darkness, navigating by memory. "Mr. Mulder," Dana called, pulling on her nightgown and following him up the stairs and down the long hallway to their bedroom. "Are you insane? What is wrong with you?" He stared at her wordlessly, unable to get any sound out. "I'm sorry," he finally managed. "What is wrong? Why did you kick the door open?" "I'm sorry." "You are bleeding. Your foot is bleeding. Sit down and let me look-" "Don't come near me," he hissed, backing away with the baby. She followed, stepping toward him. "You called me Melly. You have never done that before. Not even in bed." "I did not." She nodded her head up and down. Yes, he had. "You thought I would hurt her. That is why you ask me all the time if I think Emily is all right." She paused, scrutinizing him. "Did Melissa hurt Samuel?" "No," he said forcefully, finding his legs against the bed so he couldn't retreat farther. He laid Emily down, fencing her in with pillows. When he turned around again, Dana was still standing in front of him. Her nightgown had molded over her damp breasts and hips, and her wet hair hung down her back in blood red curls. "She did. How did she die, Mr. Mulder? What was the accident?" "What. Do. You. Want!" he exploded, towering over her. "I want to help you." "I don't want your Goddamn help! And I don't need it!" He exhaled suddenly, then bit his lip and braced his hands on his hips. "I'm going to work," he decided. That was Dana's cue to get out of his way, but she stepped even closer, staring up at him. "It is four in the morning. You are not going to work. What was the accident, Mr. Mulder?" "Move, Dana. You don't tell me what to do. This isn't funny." "What was the accident?" "I'm warning you…" "What was the accident?" "The maid accidentally left my razor out and Melly slit her wrists! There! That's how she died! She killed herself. She killed the baby. Because of me. Is that what you wanted to know?" he screamed at her. He leaned against the bed, struggling to hold back tears. "Is that what you wanted to know, Dana?" he repeated hoarsely. "How I found her dead in a bathtub full of blood? How Sam's face looked when he found her? How I carried her upstairs and put her under the covers so she'd stay warm? How I wouldn't let the undertaker near her body for hours because I wouldn't believe she was dead? Do you want to know how it felt standing in the graveyard as them buried my wife and daughter while my son sobbed and knowing it was my fault? Is that what you wanted to know?" his throat croaked out. She continued staring at him, stunned. "I will take Emily to the nursery," she said quietly, after a long pause. "And then I will bring a basin and some bandages and see to your foot. Stay here." He nodded, not looking up. His blood pounded in his ears and his stomach churned. It hurt to breathe, and he wished he would vomit and get it over with. "Do you think I'm insane?" he muttered when she returned. "No. I told you: I think you are hurting." "I think I'm insane," he said, and she didn't answer. She put her candle on the night stand, then guided him back so he was sitting on the mattress. Instead of sitting, though, he laid down, hugging his arms tightly around his shivering body. "I need to see your foot," she urged him gently. "I don't care. Let it bleed. Lie down, Dana." For the first time since they'd been married, she hesitated. "Mr. Mulder… You are frightening me. Please…" "No, just lie down." She did, very slowly. He scooted forward, putting his arms around her, burying his face in her wet hair, and closing his eyes, waiting until he was able to speak again. "When we were first married, before Sam came," he whispered to her hoarsely, "Melly would sew shirts and send them to me at school because she was my wife and she thought that was her job: to keep me in shirts. She must have sent a dozen, but they never fit. The sleeves would be two different lengths or the whole shirt three sizes too big, but I couldn't bear to tell her. So, I'd have a tailor near campus make copies that fit and wear those when I was home, and she never knew." He tried to laugh at the memory and couldn't even come close. "When Sam was five, on Christmas Eve, he announced he wanted a zebra for Christmas, so Melly and I spent half the night in the stable painting stripes on a white horse with black shoe polish." He shifted, huddling even closer to Dana in the darkness. "She loved getting dressed up to go to the theater and the opera, but she never had any idea what was happening on stage, and she usually fell asleep against my shoulder before it was over. During intermission, though, we'd look through our opera glasses at people and I'd make up what they were saying, and she'd laugh. She loved me. She adored me. She thought I could do anything, fix anything. She was wonderful, Dana. And I couldn't save her." "You tried." "I didn't try hard enough." She rolled over, stroking his hair. "Close your eyes. It will be morning soon," she assured him. *~*~*~* When he woke, he had a throbbing pain just behind his forehead, a taste of dirty socks in his mouth, and an oozing gash on his foot. As he crept out of their bedroom, careful not to wake Dana, Mulder was still hoping vomiting would help, but he knew it wouldn't. Poppy eyed him as he hobbled into the kitchen well after seven, wearing his tuxedo trousers and nothing else, unshaven and with his hair standing on end. Yellow sunlight streamed through the windows and spilled across the floor; he grimaced and raised one hand, trying to shield his eyes. "Musta been quite a party," she commented. "Is there coffee?" he asked as two new powder kegs of pain exploded behind his eyeballs. "You don't need no coffee," she answered knowingly, as he limped past her, still squinting. "It'll just make you sicker. Hair of the dog – that's what you need." "Coffee," he reiterated, turning back and pointing at the stove. Ignoring her stare, Mulder filled a pitcher from the stove reservoir and limped to the bathroom to shave and clean up. When he returned, feeling a little better, she'd closed the curtains, mercifully blocking some of the light. However, there was an empty teacup on the kitchen table beside a plate of fried eggs, the whites still a little runny. Poppy gave him a wicked smile. "You're very funny," he grumbled, swallowing against the bile that rose in his throat. "Take that away or you're going to find out what Mother served for dinner last night." She slid the plate to the center of the table, letting the undercooked eggs cool before she gave them to Grace. "I'm making you tea, Fox. Hot tea with brandy. Then maybe some toast. You used all the hot water, so it'll be a minute." He nodded, trying not to move his head very much, that tea was acceptable. "Your limp have somethin' to do with the busted lock on the bathroom door?" she asked. "Or the blood on the stairs?" "Possibly. I was drunk. I don't remember." She flipped two empty chairs around so they faced each other, gesturing for him to sit on one and prop his foot on the other, which he did. "That true?" He could tell by her expression she already knew it wasn't. "Possibly. I was drunk. I don't remember." She "hummed" in the back of her throat, leaning down and poking at the jagged cut on his heel. He jerked away when she found a tender spot, and she pulled his foot back, frowning. "It hurts!" "Course it hurts," she responded, sitting down. "It has a big splinter in it. Don't kick doors open if you don't want your foot to hurt, Fox. What happened last night? You have a fight with her?" Dana was always "her" or "Ma'am" or, if pressed, "Miss Dana." Poppy would have died before she addressed Dana as "Mrs. Mulder." "Her?" "Her." "I've told you: she's not ‘her.' She's my wife," he reminded her. "She's Emily's mother." "She is that," she agreed coolly. "And my Sam's stepmother." "And Samuel's stepmother," he echoed as he closed his eyes, massaging his temples as he waited on the teakettle. Aside from a series of disapproving hums and sighs as she tried to dislodge the sliver of wood in his heel, Poppy was quiet for a while. Then, she cleared her throat and asked, "What you think Sam's gonna make of that?" "Make of what?" he mumbled, still massaging his forehead and only half listening. "What do you mean?" Catching him off-guard, she asked evenly, "I mean, you think Sam be pleased she was pregnant before his mother was even cold?" He opened his eyes and stared at her, still hung-over and momentarily thinking he'd heard wrong. "That was vulgar and uncalled for, Poppy," he said eventually. "Don't change it, though." "It doesn't make it any of your business," he responded tersely, and a tense silence followed. Poppy stared at him rebelliously as Mulder's head throbbed. She'd been forgetting lately that she reported to him, not the other way around. He opened his mouth to remind her of that fact, but then closed it again. It wasn't only his wife that had died, but also Poppy's half-sister. It was his unborn daughter, but also her niece. His only son was missing, but so was the boy Poppy had nursed and cared for. He hadn't cornered the market on pain in their unjust world. Poppy had her share as well. Sarah, Melissa, even Jack Kavanaugh - the only family she had was dead. By the standards of their day, she was middle-aged, and the prettiness of her youth was beginning to fade. Though many men pursued her for sport, Poppy was unlikely to ever marry, especially after giving birth to an illegitimate daughter. Obviously, Sadie had a white father somewhere, but Poppy seemed to be going it alone. Perhaps the affair cooled when she became pregnant, and she'd been discarded by one of Washington's gentlemen. Having an octoroon mistress was one thing; risking a bastard child yelling "Daddy" as you walked through the market with your wife put things in a less attractive light. Perhaps, though, Poppy's lover was working class and unable to keep her, so she had to work. Or perhaps the little girl's father had been killed in the war or was only stationed in DC and returned to his family afterward. Whatever had happened, Poppy was close-lipped about it. Sam would have known the truth, but Sam wasn't around to ask. Poppy poked at his heel a few more times, and he jerked his foot back, still frowning at her as his forehead throbbed and his eyes burned. Regardless of how much she might be hurting, it didn't excuse her basically calling Dana a whore. "She is my wife," he repeated deliberately. "If you can't respect that, if you can't respect her…" He trailed off, not wanting to make a threat he wasn't really willing to follow through on. She was Sam's nurse, and when he returned, Sam would need her. "Guess it can't be undone now," she said finally, seeming to realize she'd bitten off more than she could chew. Leaning sideways in her chair, she reached for the kettle, and then filled his teacup. She added a tea ball and the water blushed amber, the steam rising from the top. "No. No, it can't. None of it can." "Nope," she agreed coolly. "You failed her, too, he said, letting some of the anger inside him boil to the surface. "You were supposed to look after Melly while I was gone, but you weren't even here. You left Sam to take care of her, and he was scared to death." Poppy stared at the floor, and he picked up the silver chain on the tea ball, fiddling with it. Eventually he said, "Which also can't be undone now." "Nope," she repeated. "Fox, I… I know I should have been here." "And I knew she shouldn't have been having another baby, regardless of what she wanted. Poppy, you and I can blame each other until Doomsday, but Melly's still gone. I can't bring her back: not for me, not for you, and not for Sam. I met Dana and it…" He paused, trying to put into words she might understand. "It seemed right. And then Emily… It seemed like a place to begin again. You act like I'm being disloyal to Melissa's memory when I'm not. I care for Dana, but it's not the same at all." "I know; I change the bed sheets. It ain't the same at all." "What do you mean by that?" She didn't answer, but her cheekbones stood out as she clenched her teeth. "How dare you!" he barked at her, losing his temper. "I don't think you have any room to judge Dana or me or us or our marriage, and if you ever say anything like that again– How dare you!" he repeated, angry but still not quite believing his ears. Poppy could be plainspoken, but he'd never known her to be so blatantly disrespectful. She flinched, cowering slightly in her chair the way Melissa had when he'd get upset with her. "I'm sorry," she said, sounding sincere. "But it's true. People are talking. They're laughing at you, Fox." "What if they are? She's my wife," he said, getting his temper partially in check. "Dana's been nothing but kind to you, and you've barely been civil to her. Why are you so bent on hating her? Because you can't dictate her every move? Because she doesn't look to you to tell her what to say when someone asks ‘How are you today, Mrs. Mulder?' She's not Melly. She can think for herself." He closed his mouth, picked up his teacup, then put it down again without drinking it. Poppy stood, tilting her chin up defiantly. "You don't own me, Fox. You don't tell me what to think. And I think you're making a fool of yourself over that girl." "No, I don't own you, but you don't own me either. I don't explain myself to you. It's my house, you work for me, and I've had enough of this. Dana's not a girl; she's my wife, in body and name, whether you or the rest of the city like it or not. You might as well stop prissing around like a jilted mistress." She grabbed her shawl and flung it around her shoulders, then picked up her basket and announced she was going to the market. She marched out of the kitchen, slamming the back door after her so hard the windows rattled. Mulder, King of Tact, laid his throbbing head on the table, sighing. Regardless of whatever bee she had in her bonnet, that might not have been the most fruitful way to handle that situation. The tea smelled nice, but the eggs were making his stomach turn, so he shoved the plate farther away in annoyance. As the back gate banged shut, he heard his plate of undercooked eggs slide over the opposite edge of the table and crash to the floor. Grace perked up as the plate broke, then waddled over to lick the liquid yolks off the floorboards. "I'm glad I could brighten someone's life," Mulder muttered. Grace wagged twice, licked his chops, then returned to his hideout behind the stove. *~*~*~* He tried to be quiet, but there wasn't much need; Dana would have slept through the burning of Rome. He added a few logs to the fire so their bedroom was warm, then brought a basin of hot water upstairs and set it on the night stand. After some searching, Mulder found an unopened bar of floral-scented soap in the bathroom cupboard. He added a clean washcloth and a stack of towels to his collection, made some coffee, and limped back up the steps. She opened her eyes as he ran the washcloth over her belly, leaving a wet trail behind. "What are you doing now, Mr. Mulder?" she asked sleepily. "Making amends. I interrupted your bath last night," he answered, "Good morning." "Morning." He wet the washcloth again, massaging it over her shoulders, neck, and breasts. "How is your foot?" she asked, but he shook his head, wanting her to be quiet. It was his turn to take care of her. Despite the fire, her nipples hardened and gooseflesh rose on her skin. The water glistened on her skin, reflecting a kaleidoscope of colors. Her hair was still damp, and had tangled into a dark red mass of curls, making her look wild and primal. He squeezed the washcloth above her belly, watching the water stream over her hipbones and disappear between her thighs. "Dana, you said I frightened you last night. I didn't mean to. I had too much to drink, had a bad dream, and when I woke, I was upset. I'm sorry," he said quietly. "It won't happen again." He'd rehearsed these lines, and hers was "apology accepted." Instead, she asked, "Why could you not tell me about Melissa?" He stuttered, caught off-guard, "I- I don't know. Because it was my fault, maybe. It's hard to talk about. I'd rather not talk about it. I just wanted to apologize and make amends." He leaned down to kiss her, but she turned her head away. "How was it your fault? Because of Poppy's baby?" "Was that the consensus last night?" "What is that?" "A consensus? When people are in agreement. Was that what everyone was saying at dinner? That Melly- That it was because Poppy was my mistress? That I fathered her child?" "No, I have not heard anyone say that except you." He looked down, fiddling with the washcloth. "I told you: I'm not the father. I could speculate on who is, but I wasn't even in DC when that baby was conceived." There was silence, and he shifted uncomfortably. "Yes, Poppy is very beautiful, but so was Melly. I've never been unfaithful to my wife." "I was not accusing you. I was answering when you asked about a consensus." "I know you weren't." He rinsed the washcloth, sloshing the soapy water over the sides of the basin. There was a rusty smear of dried blood on the bottom sheet, and he dabbed it, realizing it was his. The blood on the sheet was his. The back of his aching brain tingled and an unexplained shiver ran down his spine. He blinked in confusion, dabbed it again, and shook his head, clearing it. "I kissed her," he finally said softly. "Once. I was eighteen. My parents came to Harvard for a visit and brought Sam and Melly, and things didn't… Things didn't go well between Melly and I that night. I went to check on Sam, trying to cool off, and Poppy was with him, nursing him. He was too old, but she still let him do it. We talked for a while in the darkness and then, I don't know why, but I kissed her. No, I do know why. Anyway, I told her I was sorry and said it wouldn't happen again. And it hasn't. And it won't." "Why?" He slid each of his lips between his teeth, trying to formulate an answer since she obviously expected one. "Why did I kiss her?" "No, why did you stop?" "Oh." That was an easier, less embarrassing question to answer. "Poppy was Melly's father's slave. If she hadn't done what I wanted, I could have sent her back to Kavanaugh. She knew that, and she would have done anything to keep away from him. Including pretending she wanted me. I couldn't ask her to do that." "Was she Melissa's father's mistress?" "Probably," he answered. "If you'd call it that. She won't talk about it, but she had a stillborn son just before Sam came. That's how she wound up as his nurse." Dana put one hand behind her head, staring at him in confusion. "But she was Melissa's half-sister?" He nodded. He was learning there were upsides and downsides to being married to a bright, perceptive woman. "But-" "I don't want to talk about it anymore," he said quickly. "I just wanted to tell you I was sorry for getting angry. I brought you coffee, if you want it." He swirled the washcloth around the basin, watching the rough white fabric glide through the water. "All right." "Do you want your coffee?" "No." He wrung the cloth out, then rinsed it again, splattering drops of soapy water across the richly polished wood of the night stand. "Mr. Mulder, it is all right," she repeated, sitting up. When he still didn't look at her, she put her hand on his shoulder and then slid both arms around his neck. "It is fine," she whispered to him. "I guess I neglected to tell you a few things when I asked you to marry me." She stroked his face, tracing his eyebrows and cheekbones with her thumbs as she tried to comfort him. "Well, you said you were not odd, which remains to be seen. You said you had a temper and curse; you were headstrong and demanding. You curled up and went to sleep when you drank. You said you liked children. You said you wanted me and cared for me and were not rough. That was all true. But I was relieved to find there were not bones in the house." He pushed his eyebrows together, not sure he understood. "You said there were skeletons in your closets." He was probably being teased, but he wasn't certain. "That means there are secrets." "Of course, I know that now," she responded, flicking her finger lightly against the tip of his nose. "What did I ever do to deserve you?" "Something very, very bad," she answered, pursing her lips in mock seriousness and looking like the lady-friend he'd made in the Georgia swamps. As much as he liked his new wife, he missed his friend. "Dana, I also said, when I asked you to marry me, that I would take care of you and Emily. Not the other way around." "You have taken care of us. Look around. Could we possibly want for anything?" "No, I don't mean with things. I mean…" He searched for the right way to say it. "You're very strong, Dana. You don't share your secrets or yourself casually. I'm your husband, but sharing my bed isn't sharing yourself. Sometimes one bed is as far apart as two people can get. I know I get angry when you push me to talk, but I also know I need that push. But the more I push you, the more you pull away. I guess what I'm trying to say is… Yes, you're right: I'm hurting, but I know you're hurting too. You have to be, but you're so good at not showing it. You said you'd tell me if you aren't all right, and I can only trust that you will. And if I don't hear you the first time you tell me, please tap me on the shoulder and tell me again until I do. I can be a little dense." He ran out of air and ramblings. "Do you understand what I'm trying to say?" She nodded that she did, leaning back on the pillows and looking like Aphrodite patiently waiting for Titian to paint her portrait. "Do you really? The fearless hero is supposed to come charging in on his white horse and save the damsel in distress. Not the other way around." "Mr. Mulder, I only let you save me in self-defense." *~*~*~* He slipped easily into a pleasant routine with Dana. As he'd written to Melly, it was a lesser love, but still quite nice, and several steps above being alone. Gray autumn days blended into frigid winter nights, and 1865 went on as if life was real. There was no sign of Sam, and the empty ache in his heart grew as the chances of his son coming home dwindled to barely existent. Dana asked about the carriage horses' names - D'Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis – so, without thinking, Mulder started for Sam's bedroom to retrieve a copy of "The Three Musketeers." He stared at the door, and then turned away without ever touching the knob. Lewis Carroll published "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland," and Mark Twain's short story "The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County" was well received. Mulder read both to Dana, and she listened, sitting beside the hearth as she mended clothes. Emily mastered rolling over, and started working on crawling. Her hair stayed blonde, her eyes blue, and strangers stopped calling her "him." People unfailingly said she looked like Mulder, but babies were like clouds: people saw what they wanted to. A telegraph line linked India and Europe. Messages could be telegraphed from London to Bombay in less then four minutes. The Great Eastern, the ship they'd honeymooned on, prepared to leave New York to lay the first trans-Atlantic telegraph cable. As the ship was refitted, a man's skeleton was found inside the hull. The remains of the unfortunate steelworker were buried, and reports of mysterious tapping sounds below decks came to an end. The Evening Star did what it was known for: it printed the truth about Washington's finest and foulest, which infuriated his Uncle Spender. The very palms Spender was trying to grease were the same ones whose prints were all over the scandals and corruptions The Star reported. At a party, his stepfather angrily observed Mulder spent more time in his wife than in his office, and was summarily told to go to Hell. Congressman Thaddeus Stephens suggested the estates of former Confederate leaders be confiscated and divided into forty-acre plots for freed slaves. A great deal of property was seized, a great deal of money was made, and very little of either made it to the ex-slaves. Mulder paid the taxes on Waterston's plantation and transferred the title, ensuring Dori and Benjamin wouldn't be evicted. Acting on Dana's behalf, he sold Waterston's other house in Savannah to the government, which had soldiers living there anyway, and put the money aside for Emily. He also had her mail forwarded, and received two worn envelopes the Savannah post office had been holding. The first letter was from Waterston to Dana, which Mulder opened, read, then resealed and gave to her that evening. It was the same sort of note most soldiers wrote – vague, optimistic - saying he loved and missed Dana and hoped to be home soon. The war was going well, according to Waterston, and he mentioned having recently met Dana in Savannah. That weekend had been "quite enjoyable, Puss," and, from the date on the postmark, had been about the time Emily had been conceived. After the war, the letter must have sat in a forgotten mailbag until some Federal bureaucrat thought to forward it. Dana opened it in front of Mulder, read it, moving her lips as she did, then put it away without comment. If she ever looked at it again, he didn't see her. The other envelope was addressed to Dr. Daniel Waterston, Sr., care of the Confederate Army, and postmarked in New Orleans in April. Mulder opened it, confirming his suspicions. He'd told Dana men who kept placage mistresses usually had white wives. Dori was the mistress and Nina was the wife, writing to ask when her husband was coming home. Mulder told Dana he was searching for Sam, but instead made a trip to the French Quarter. When he knocked, a girl with long black braids answered the door, accompanied by teenage boy Mulder took to be Daniel Waterston, Jr. Nina was a gracious, trusting Spanish matron who invited him in for tea when he said he was her husband's business associate. Mulder declined tea, told Dana his trip had been fruitless, and locked Nina's letter in his desk without mentioning it to Dana. Major Henry Witz, commandant of Andersonville Prison in Georgia, was hanged in DC. Witz was the only Confederate executed by the US Government for war crimes, and the story made the front page of most newspapers, including The Evening Star. It was estimated more Federal soldiers died in Andersonville of disease and starvation than in the battles of Gettysburg and Antietam combined. 13,000 graves were identified, but thousands more were unmarked. At his mother's urging, they joined her at the opera for Rigoletto. Dana wore a black dress trimmed with brown velvet ribbon and Mulder shielded his eyes, claiming its brightness blinded him. He accidentally groaned "I love you" during intercourse, then told himself a man loved anything he had his cock that deep inside, and never mentioned it again. He had no idea what Dana whispered to him, since she usually whispered it in Gaelic. What sounded like sweet nothings in his ear could have been "hurry up and get this over with" or "get off my hair" for all he knew. It still sounded nice. Thirteenth Amendment, introduced before the Civil War, was ratified, making President Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation into law. Slavery was abolished as a legal institution in the United States and all its territories. No provision was made for Negroes to vote, hold property, or be granted any privileges of US citizenship. Six former Confederate officers in Pulaski, Tennessee formed the Ku Klux Klan. Their invisible empire of vigilante justice and terrorism spread throughout the South like wildfire. Ivan Sechenov published "Reflexes of the Brain," an article on the physiological basis of psychic phenomena. One morning, just before Christmas, he woke Dana by crawling back into bed and whispering it was finally snowing outside. They laid there for an hour, skin to skin underneath the covers, silent, and watched the white flakes drifting down. "Do you think you're going to have a baby?" he finally asked, more exhaling sounds than whispering. Though he understood there was a causal relationship between intercourse and pregnancy, it hadn't occurred to him it might apply in this situation. "No, I think it was something I ate. I feel better now." "You're sure?" he asked. "You don't want me to get the doctor?" "I am sure." "All right. As long as you're all right." She laced her fingers through his and pulled his arms tight around her. "You wanted me to say yes." She said it as a statement, not a question, though he'd never mentioned having more children. "You want another baby. A son." "No. Not really. I just want the son I have to come home." *~*~*~* End: Paracelsus VI