Begin - Paracelsus VII
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  Dear Melissa, 
  
  There are people in this world who live moment by moment, never thinking
  beyond their next meal, dollar, or drink.  We call them simple and
  coarse, but sometimes I envy them.  Wouldn't it be wonderful to not
  know, and to not know that you did not know?
  
  I can see the perplexed crease forming between your pretty eyebrows. 
  Don't make that face, honey.  It's just one of my "romantic notions," as
  Father called them.  Pay me no mind.
  
  We wellborn gentlemen spend our lives scheming tomorrow, fighting the
  future, and I wonder if it does any good.  Some would say not.  Some
  would say fate is set the moment a baby first draws breath.  There is no
  free will.  God choreographs destiny like an intricate ballet, and we
  are all his dancers.  Please play along, Mr. Mulder; follow the program.
  
  And some would say that is not true, that each life is a clean slate and
  a new roll of the dice.  That God sets the world in motion, then steps
  back and watches, hopeful, expectant, but does not interfere.  There are
  infinite variables, infinite futures.  Each moment, we make choices –
  from choosing which cravat matches my vest to choosing which woman
  matches my soul – and those choices add up to a life.
  
  And what do I think?  
  
  Let me try to explain it this way: there is no new water in the world. 
  No more, and no less.  The same liquid in my glass has passed the lips
  of Julius Caesar, of Genghis Kahn, of Charlemagne, of Egyptian pharaohs
  and Druid priests and Chinese concubines and DC pickpockets.  Perhaps it
  is not an appetizing thought, but it is true.  Water – steam, liquid,
  ice – changes form, but it is eternal.
  
  I think life is the same: the same elements reforming again and again. 
  Some bonds are strong, some are weak, but the elements do not change.  I
  feel an instinctive pull toward certain people, like iron shavings to a
  magnet.  You were one; Dana is another.
  
  I have known Dana before; I swear it.  I am at ease with her, as though
  she has always known and kept my secrets. I watch her and wonder, "Were
  you my mistress in some life?  My confidant?  How many nights have we
  shared that are now only dim memories?  Or am I feeling old urges from
  impulses never acted upon?  Were you another man's wife that I coveted,
  Dana?  A woman I could not have?  Who were we that my soul knows yours?"
  
  I knew Sarah.  I knew her with every fiber of my being.  And I knew you,
  Melly.  As much as I love you, it goes beyond that.  It was an instinct
  – to protect you.  My only explanation is that in some past lifetime, I
  tried to take care of you and failed, just as I failed in this one.
  
  Sometimes the bonds are weaker, but still there.  We passed a tall
  gentleman on the street, his brown eyes behind his wire-rimmed
  spectacles intent on his newspaper and his long black topcoat fluttering
  from his broad shoulders, and I thought, "Do I know you?  Have I known
  you?  Were we meant to stop, to speak, to become friends?  Or enemies? 
  Who are you that I should recognize you, and yet do not?" He glanced at
  Dana and I, nodded tersely, and I nodded back, and then we walked on. 
  And, in this lifetime, an opportunity was lost.  
  
  It frightens me.  One would think there were enough monsters and horrors
  in this lifetime that I wouldn't worry about others, but trust me to
  seek them out.
  
  What did I do in the past that I lost you, Melly?  Surely I wouldn't
  just walk by you on the street without stopping, but it is possible.  I
  am Fox Mulder – prone to stargazing, after all, and I doubt that is a
  new trait.  How many lifetimes have passed since we last met? One?  Ten? 
  Ten thousand?  When we meet again, will I recognize you?  When I feel
  that odd sensation of déjà vu in my belly, will I have the sense to heed
  it?  Or will I blame it on a bad bowl of clam chowder and walk on?
  
  I think of the people I care for and chant to myself "do not forget, do
  not forget, do not forget." Did I do that in some past life?  As I drew
  my last breath, did I look at the face above mine and chant "do not
  forget, do not forget?" And if I did, who was it I wanted so badly to
  remember?
  
  I recognized Dana.  My soul recognized hers, though she would laugh
  herself silly if I ever said that to her.
  
  I am rambling and boring you, I know.  Sarah would grab my ankle and
  jerk me back to Earth before I floated off to dreamland.  She would say
  I am looking for patterns and answers in a cruelly random and
  incomprehensible world.  She would say I am not really talking about you
  or Dana or anyone else except Samuel.  She would say I am assuring
  myself I will see him in our next lifetime because I no longer believe I
  will see him again in this one.
  
  There.  I wrote it in pen so I cannot erase.
  
  I need to go now, honey.  There is a train leaving for Georgia at five
  and I need to be on it.  I will let you know what I find.
  
  Mulder
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  His father had wanted him to be a soldier.  Bill Mulder had attended
  West Point, as had his father before him.  Their family fought in the
  French and Indian war, the American Revolution, the War of 1812, the war
  with Mexico, and any other time someone demanded honor, bravery, and a
  sword or a musket.
  
  No married man was admitted to West Point, nor could a cadet marry
  before he graduated – no exceptions.  By marrying Melissa, or rather, by
  acknowledging responsibility for her pregnancy and all the events that
  quickly followed, Mulder had forfeited his admission.  He'd graduated a
  year early and at the top of his class at Harvard, but it wasn't the
  same.  He'd given his father a healthy grandson, a beautiful daughter-
  in-law, and built a successful, respectable business, but it wasn't the
  same.  
  
  Unlike southern soldiers, who enlisted or were drafted for the duration
  of the war, men in the north fought for set periods, some for only a few
  months.  They could reenlist, but most didn't.  Most served their time,
  counted their blessings that they survived, and went home to their
  families. 
  
  Mulder joined the cavalry when Lincoln called for soldiers April 1861
  and, except for being wounded, two Christmases, and Melly's death,
  served continuously until May 1865, when the victorious Federal Army
  marched through Washington DC in the Grand Review.  He started the war
  as a captain and ended as a colonel with a collection of medals and
  commendations that would have made his father proud, had his father
  lived to see them.
  
  In the fall of 1864, General Sherman captured Atlanta, quartered his
  64,000 men there, and then ordered the city to be burned as he left. 
  After Atlanta, he marched his army southeast toward Savannah and the
  Georgia coast, leveling everything in his path and cutting the
  Confederacy in two.  Total war; scorched earth. Destroy every factory,
  bridge, railroad, barn, and house.  Confiscate or destroy all livestock,
  cotton, and food.  Instead of attacking the enemy's army, decimate the
  population supplying the enemy's army.
  
  It was a brilliant plan, but implementing it was nauseatingly real. 
  Most citizens fled as the Federal troops advanced, but a few on the
  outskirts of Atlanta refused to go, and it fell to Mulder's men to get
  them out.  Or to burn the roofs over their heads – General Sherman
  wasn't particular.  
  
  "She won't leave, sir," his lieutenant informed him, raising his voice
  to be heard over the fires and the horses-drawn cannons and mortars
  rolling past.  The infantry was already miles away, but the soldiers
  were still moving the last of the artillery out of the city.  
  
  The air was thick with smoke, stinging his eyes and blurring his vision. 
  They'd destroyed the last of the warehouses at the edge of town, and the
  flames spread quickly to the nearby wooden houses.  
  
  "Tell her she doesn't have a choice," Mulder answered absently, watching
  the inferno.
  
  None of it was real, anyway.  He'd returned to his regiment immediately
  after Melissa's funeral, and he registered the burning city the same way
  he registered coffee: it was hot.  Bitter.  Beyond that, he was still in
  shock.  He closed his eyes every so often, thinking the nightmare might
  be over when he opened them again.  
  
  It never was.
  
  "I've explained, sir.  She won't leave," the lieutenant repeated,
  coughing.  Mulder must have looked like he'd forgotten what they were
  discussing, because the young man added, "An old woman.  She says it's
  her home and she'd rather die than leave it."
  
  "So let her," another of the officers muttered.
  
  "Sir?" the lieutenant asked. 
  
  "Oh, Goddamn it!" Mulder snapped in annoyance, swinging down from his
  saddle. "Where is she?"
  
  His men indicated a modest yellow house at the end of the street, the
  paint on one side already blistering from the heat.
  
  "Ma'am," he called, pounding on the front door, then pushing it open
  where there was no answer.  The interior was cluttered, fussy, and
  bathed in orange light from the flames outside the windows. 
  
  "Ma'am!" He turned to the young soldier at his heels. "I thought you
  said she was in here.  Where is she?"
  
  The lieutenant pointed to the stairs, and Mulder trudged up, cursing
  under his breath.
  
  "Ma'am, you have to leave now," he said tiredly.  He reached the second
  floor, knocked, then stuck his head into the first room. "We'll escort
  you out of the city. We don't mean you any harm, but you have to leave. 
  We're-"
  
  The gray-haired lady saw a Yankee in her bedroom and started screaming
  bloody murder.  Of course – that was just what he wanted to do today:
  rape an old woman.  It was on his list: mourn dead wife, worry about
  family, destroy city, rape elderly spinster.
  
  "Ma'am, I'm not going to hurt you.  My men aren't going to hurt you, but
  you do have to leave.  You're not safe here.  Please come with me."
  
  She clutched her shawl around her and jabbered unintelligibly,
  terrified.  For some reason, put a blue uniform on a man and southern
  women thought he forgot his manners.  A few men did, but most, like
  Mulder, just wanted to do their duty and go home to what remained of
  their lives.  They hadn't started this war, but they were eager to
  finish it.
  
  He offered his hand and she backed away, getting even more hysterical
  when he reached out to her.  He tried to take her by the arm and she
  kicked him in the shin, calling him a "dirty, yellow-bellied bastard,"
  which was probably the foulest curse she knew. 
  
  Mulder stared at her for a few seconds, hands on his hips, as flames
  consumed the neighboring house.  He tilted his head, debating, then
  picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder, carrying her down the
  stairs as she kicked and shrieked.  She bit his back in desperation, but
  she couldn't do more than bruise through his thick wool uniform.
  
  By the time he reached the front porch, she'd gone limp, fainting in
  terror and thankfully removing her teeth from his flesh.  He stood at
  the edge of the street, watching the draft horses pulling the cannons
  out of the city, with her faded skirt fluttering against his arm and her
  bony pelvis cutting into his shoulder.  He'd lost his cap somewhere, and
  the waves of heat rustled his hair.  Sweat ran between his shoulder
  blades and his boots pinched, intended for riding, not walking.  The
  roof of a house across the street collapsed, sending smoke and sparks
  into the already opaque sky.
  
  He looked at the hellish blaze, and at the young, expectant faces of his
  men, who awaited his order to evacuate.  He didn't even know most of his
  soldiers' names anymore. Of his original thousand-man regiment, less
  than four hundred remained; the rest were new recruits or draftees.  
  
  A wagon of wounded passed with a teenage soldier sitting at the back,
  facing away from the driver and watching his boots dangle over the open
  tail-gate as the wheels bumped through the ruts.  The boy raised his
  smoke-smudged face, staring at Mulder from underneath his long, black
  bangs.
  
  "Sam?" he called incredulously. "My God!  Samuel?  Is that you?"
  
  The handsome boy continued watching him, his gaze old and
  expressionless.  Mulder followed, dodging through the soldiers and
  artillery, and still carrying the unconscious woman over his shoulder.
  
  "Sam, are you hurt?  What are you doing here?  Why aren't you with
  Grandfather?  He must be frantic.  Did you run away?"
  
  "Grandfather's dead," his son answered numbly.
  
  Mulder stopped, stunned, and a group of officers reined their horses
  sharply to keep from running over him.
  
  No, that wasn't real, either.
  
  He got his feet to move again. "I want you to go home," Mulder ordered.
  "You aren't hurt, are you?"
  
  Sam nodded "no."
  
  "Who's your commanding officer?  I'll talk to him and he'll let you
  leave.  Just go home, Sam.  Everything will be fine."
  
  Samuel stared through him, unseeing.  His mother was dead by her own
  hand; the promise of "fine" was no longer a reality in his world. 
  Mulder couldn't blame him; he didn't believe his own assurances anymore,
  either.
  
  Before he could say anything else, there was a hiss nearby, then an
  explosion, and chaos erupted.  Horses panicked, throwing their riders or
  bolting away from their drivers.  Soldiers ran for cover as black smoke
  billowed and ash rained down.  Mulder coughed, waving his free hand,
  vainly trying to clear the air.  His nose and throat were coated with
  the peppery scent and taste of gunpowder; there must have been munitions
  hidden in one of the burning warehouses.
  
  The huge wheel of one of the 1200-pound Napoleon cannons bumped his
  shoulder, forcing him aside. 
  
  "Samuel," he yelled, trying to see through the smoke. "Sammy!"
  
  "We have to go, sir," one of his men yelled, and the weight of the old
  woman's body lifted from Mulder's shoulder. "Everyone's out, and the
  fire's spreading.  I have her.  Let's go!  Sir?  I have her.  We have to
  go, sir!"
  
  A private brought his horse, who wasn't happy about the flames, either. 
  Mulder stood in his stirrups, trying to see, and circling Shadow so he
  wouldn't bolt.  The wagon Samuel had been in was gone, but there were
  two more explosions in rapid succession.  More gunpowder.  Barrels of
  it.  Panicking, drivers cut their draft horses' harnesses, mounted, and,
  leaving the last dozen cannons behind, made a run for it.
  
  Confident Sam was out of harm's way, Mulder gave the order to evacuate,
  stopping his men when they'd reached a safe distance.  Behind them,
  Atlanta blazed like a volcano exploding into the night sky.
  
  "There's a wagon of wounded with the artillery; find that wagon," he
  ordered as they caught up with the rear of the vast army. "There's a
  teenage boy in it named Samuel.  Bring him to me."
  
  His captain wrinkled his forehead in disbelief. "The wounded left the
  city first thing, sir.  They weren't with the artillery."
  
  "No, I just saw a wagon, and it was with the artillery.  Find it.  Find
  the boy.  Samuel Mulder."
  
  But they never did. 
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  A warm hand jostled him, and then caressed his face as he woke.  The
  book of Whitman's poems was still open on his chest, and the bedside
  lamp still glowed softly.  He must have fallen asleep reading.  Outside,
  the icy wind whistled against the eaves, making him shiver despite the
  blankets.
  
  "You were having a bad dream," Dana whispered, soothing him. "A
  nightmare.  Calling for Samuel.  You are awake now, Mr. Mulder."
  
  He nodded, trying to get his bearings and only partially succeeding.  He
  was awake, but he could still hear the fires crackling in the
  background.  Dana was with him, so Melly was dead.  He wouldn't have to
  tell Melly he'd lost Sam.
  
  "Tell me about your dream," she requested, leaning over him to blow out
  the lamp.
  
  He shook his head forcefully, exhaling, and she didn't ask again.  
  
  He rolled away, putting his back to her, and shifted restlessly until he
  finally got up.  Thinking she was asleep, he sat on the chaise lounge in
  front of the bedroom window, arms around his knees, and stared out the
  dark window.  The wind blew the sleet against the glass panes, making
  insistent little tapping sounds as though desperate to be let in.
  
  Almost immediately, Dana got up and followed to him.  She rested her
  hand on his shoulder, acting as though there was nothing unusual in him
  sitting nude by the window in the middle of the night.
  
  "You will find him," she said quietly. "Wherever he is, whatever has
  happened.  You will.  Someday, you will know."
  
  He didn't answer.  It was worse late at night, just before dawn.  His
  imagination got the better of him, and there was so much darkness to
  sift through with so little reason.  
  
  "He won't come home tonight," Mulder decided, watching the sleet
  thoughtfully. "It's too cold.  He'll stay someplace warm."
  
  "No, I do not think he will come tonight.  Come back to bed."
  
  "I should keep watch," he answered as though that made any sense. "Just
  in case."
  
  "No, come to bed. He knows the way," she assured him.
  
  She took his hand, finally getting him to move.  When they reached the
  bed, he stood still, the smoky haze of his dream still clouding his
  mind.
  
  Dana traced her fingertips across his shoulders and down his arms,
  barely touching, and brushed her lips over his throat, across his
  collarbone, then to his chest, teasing his nipple with her teeth and
  tongue.  His body reacted automatically, shifting from the
  physiological, watchful arousal of his dream to sexual arousal.
  
  "…don't have to do this," he whispered to her. 
  
  "It is all right," she murmured, guiding him back onto the mattress and
  gently working her way down his body with her mouth.
  
  "No, lie back." 
  
  As much as he'd discovered he liked fellatio, he wanted to be as close
  to her as possible.  He wanted to feel every inch of her skin against
  his.  Not just her mouth, but her arms around him, breath against him,
  her heart pressing against his. 
  
  "You're… I care," he whispered through clenched teeth, sliding inside
  her.  She was slick from earlier, but less aroused than he, and what was
  a deliciously tight sensation for him was uncomfortable for her.  He
  waited, panting, giving her body time to adjust to his. "For you.  I do. 
  You know that, don't you?"
  
  It was suddenly very important to him she understood how grateful he
  was.  To her.  For her.  Not only for marrying him, but for being his
  friend.  Not only for their physical intimacy, but for being there,
  however she could, when he needed her.  She made his world comfortable,
  bearable: two places at the dinner table, four legs in a warm bed, and
  one more chance.
  
  "I know," she whispered back, relaxing into the pillows and letting him
  not think inside her.  Suddenly, mercifully, his universe was condensed
  to the narrow space between her thighs, and there was nothing else for
  what remained of the cold night.
   
  *~*~*~* 
  
  He paused on the back porch, watching through the window before he
  entered.  Dana sat at the kitchen table, and the cook stood at the
  stove, stirring the stockpot as they talked.  It was chicken, simmering
  harmoniously with onions, carrots, and celery; the aroma was so thick
  Mulder could taste it.  Grace was on alert, watching for spills. 
  Holding onto Dana's skirt, Emily pulled herself up to standing,
  clutching the fabric tightly with her little fists.  She let go,
  considered taking a step on her own, then decided against it and grabbed
  hold again.  Dana put one hand on her daughter's back, rubbing
  affectionately.  
   
  As he opened the back door, the two women and Grace looked up in
  surprise.  They hadn't expected him for another hour at the earliest. 
  Delighted, Emily flopped back on her padded bottom and raised her arms,
  babbling for "Dah-dah-dah-dah." 
  
  "Upstairs," he ordered Dana, scooped Emily up, then walked on without
  looking back.  He heard the cook tap her spoon sharply on the edge of
  the pot in disapproval, and Dana's chair squeak against the floor as she
  stood.
  
  "You are home early," Dana said uncertainly, trotting up the steps after
  him. "Are you all right?  Is something wrong?"
  
  He held the bedroom door open, then closed and locked it after her.
  
  Dana swallowed at the latch slid into place, then watched warily as he
  paced the length of their bedroom, carrying Emily with him.
  
  "What is wrong, Mr. Mulder?" she asked again, her voice softer. "What
  has happened?"
  
  "I'm taking a trip.  Pack my things.  No suits – rough clothes: boots,
  denim trousers, work shirts.  My train leaves in an hour."
  
  "All- All right," she answered apprehensively. "Another trip.  Would you
  rather Poppy-"
  
  "I want you to do it.  I'll tell Poppy I'm going to New York on
  business.  Don't tell her differently until I return."
  
  Dana took a leather satchel from the wardrobe and set it on the dresser,
  then began filling it efficiently.  Normally, she'd have objected to
  being ordered around like a servant, but this time she didn't.  Just as
  she knew when to push him, she knew when not to push.
  
  "Cotton," he told her as she opened a dresser drawer. "Not wool.  I'll
  be in Georgia.  It's already spring there."
  
  She paused briefly, waiting for an explanation, then continued packing. 
  
  "Where in Georgia?" she asked finally.
  
  "Andersonville.  It was a P.O.W. camp during the war."
  
  "Do you think you have found Samuel?  Or are you looking?"
  
  "I think I've found a William Samuels.  Private.  Age thirteen.  He was
  a prisoner at the camp.  Captured by Confederate scouts September 10th …"
  Mulder took a few breaths before he added, "And died November 15, 1864
  of typhoid."
  
  She stopped folding a shirt, staring at him. "You told me you saw last
  Samuel in Atlanta with General Sherman's men."
  
  "I saw him leaving the city with our army.  November 15, 1864."
  
  "Then this William Samuels could not be your son.  He could not have
  been at Andersonville.  That is not possible.  How could he be in two
  places at the same time?"
  
  "Sam said my father had died.  I heard him.  I was yelling at him to go
  home to his grandfather, and he said ‘Grandfather's dead.' He said it. 
  Very clearly.  I know what I heard."
  
  She shook her head, not understanding.
  
  "He said it November 15, 1864.  My father died during the siege of
  Richmond.  April 1, 1865.  Almost five months later, Dana.  Father was
  alive when our army left Atlanta."
  
  "I don't-"
  
  "Maybe I didn't see my son, Dana.  Maybe I saw a ghost.  A doppelganger. 
  A death omen.  Maybe Sam died in Andersonville that night.  I wrote to
  Clara Barton, the nurse who sorted through the prison's records – just
  to make sure - and she telegraphed back that there was a William Samuels
  on the death roster."
  
  He pulled the telegram out of his pocket, thrusting it at her like the
  words were somehow her fault.
  
  "Miss Barton offered her condolences," he added, fastening the half-
  packed satchel with one hand and holding Emily on his hip with the
  other. "My regiment rode past Andersonville.  We were twenty miles away,
  but we never stopped. We were too intent on capturing Atlanta.  Miss
  Barton's condolences make me feel so much better right now," he said
  bitterly.
  
  Dana bit her lower lip. "Do you want me to go with you?  Let me pack
  some things for Emily and we will go with you."
  
  He shook his head tersely. "No, stay here.  Take care of Emmy.  Here –
  take her.  And don't tell Poppy until I know for certain.  I'll be home
  in a week.  Maybe sooner."
  
  "How will you be certain?"
  
  "We're opening the grave.  Miss Barton has located it, and I already
  sent a telegram to the judge, asking permission.  The judge was a friend
  of my father's; he'll grant it.  I need to go, Dana."
  
  "My God! Listen to yourself! Do not do this to yourself.  Even if-"
  
  "I'll be home in a week," he repeated, walking out of their bedroom
  without looking back.
   
  *~*~*~*
  
  Although he'd rather she hadn't, Poppy met him in the front hall before
  the Hansom cab was out of the driveway, taking his hat and satchel and
  asking about his business trip.
  
  He didn't respond except to ask, "Where's Dana?"
  
  "In the nursery.  She-"
  
  Mulder held up his hand, not interested in a litany of all the things
  she believed Dana had done wrong in the last week.  Poppy always had a
  long list of grievances against Dana, 99% of which boiled down to Dana
  not being Melly.
  
  "Are you hungry?" Poppy called as he trudged up the stairs. "Fox?"
  
  He shook his head and kept walking. 
  
  The nursery door was open, and Dana was just putting Emily down for her
  afternoon nap.  He leaned against the doorframe, watching them.  When
  Dana looked up, he turned away, continuing to their bedroom.
  
  He sat heavily on the sofa, elbows on his knees, head hanging tiredly,
  fingertips pressed against his forehead.  He felt beaten.  Empty.  If
  keeping his heart and lungs pumping had required effort, he couldn't
  have managed it.
  
  He heard Dana enter and close the door behind her. "Please go away," he
  requested, not raising his head.
  
  "What did you find?  Was it- In Andersonville, did you…"
   
  "I found a dead body.  What do you think I'd find - the Holy Grail?  Go
  away, Dana."
  
  He'd handled it all so well: supervising the excavation, watching the
  undertaker examine the decomposed corpse of a teenage boy. 
  Andersonville Prison was now Andersonville National Cemetery, so he'd
  chosen a proper coffin instead of the sheet the body had been wrapped
  in, and had a minister preside at the burial, re-interring the body
  among the endless rows of stark white headstones.  Afterward, he'd
  calmly caught the train back to DC.  He'd even bought a newspaper and
  held it open in front of him as the hours passed, because that was what
  men did on trains.  He couldn't remember one word that had been in it.
   
  "Was it Samuel?"
  
  "Why do you care?  It's not your son."
  
  "I care because he is your son."
  
  Ashamed of himself, he didn't respond, and there was a long silence as
  he stared at the floor. He massaged his forehead, trying to get his
  headache to subside.  If he pressed his fingers against his eyelids, he
  saw orange and red and black swirling patterns, like watching flames at
  night.  It hurt, but at least it felt like something.
  
  "Sit back," Dana's voice asked softly. "I will help you undress and you
  can lie down.  You will be more comfortable.  You can rest."
  
  "For God's sake!  Goddamn it, I don't need your help!  Stop pestering me
  and go a-" He glanced at her, seeing the compassion in her eyes. "Dana,
  I'm sorry."
  
  "No, I am sorry.  I am."
  
  She knelt on the floor in front of him, unbuttoning his vest and shirt. 
  As she pushed the wrinkled fabric back from his shoulders, there was a
  soft knock at the bedroom door and Poppy entered, asking if he was all
  right.
  
  "You may go," Dana answered, unbuttoning his cuffs and stripping off his
  sleeves, then undershirt so he was bare from the waist up.  He moved
  like a sleepy child, minimally cooperative. "Poppy, you can leave for
  the day.  Everyone can.  Please tell them.  We'd like to be alone this
  evening."
  
  Poppy stepped into the bedroom like she belonged there, ignoring Dana.
  "Fox?  What's wrong?  What's happened?"
  
  "Poppy, go home," Dana repeated sternly. 
  
  "Something's wrong.  He needs me."
  
  "I'm okay," Mulder mumbled, his voice sounding foreign to him. "Dana
  will take care of me."
  
  Poppy shook her head. "No, I'll make coffee and-" 
  
  "He's not your husband, and he doesn't need you.  Now do what he told
  you: get out of our bedroom, take your daughter, and go home!" Dana
  snapped. "Now."
  
  There was a pause, then the bedroom door closed, and Poppy's angry
  footsteps faded away down the hall.
  
  "She's going to put one of her voodoo spells on you," he warned tiredly,
  filling silence.         
  
  "If voodoo worked, you would be in love with her ten times over," she
  responded crisply.
   
  He tried to chuckle, failed, and bit his trembling lower lip as the dam
  around his heart began to crack. "It's not him, Dana," he mumbled. "It's
  not."
  
  "It was not Samuel?"
  
  He shook his head slowly. "It's not," he repeated, biting his lip harder
  as his nose began to drip. "Blond hair.  Not Sam.  Not my boy." 
  
  "Oh, thank God."
  
  He shook his head again, his chin trembling uncontrollably. "Not my
  Sammy.  He's somebody's boy, but not mine.  Mine's still out there
  somewhere."
  
  He looked up, his face crumpling and tears beginning to well up in the
  corners of his eyes.  
  
  "Please go away," he repeated miserably, but she wouldn't.  As shameful
  as crying was, it was even worse to do it in front of a woman.  And as
  angry as it made him, he couldn't stop. 
  
  "I am sorry," she whispered again.
  
  Dana tried to wipe his cheeks, but he jerked away.  He wanted to shout
  at her that she didn't understand, that she wasn't sorry because she
  didn't know what he felt, but she knew exactly what he felt.
  
  "Would it be easier if it had been him?" she asked quietly. "Is that
  what bothers you?  That you wanted it to be Samuel?  As awful as it
  would have been, it would at have been an answer?  It would have been
  over?"
  
  He nodded, swallowed, swallowed again, then started to sob in earnest,
  leaning forward again and covering his head with both hands, as though
  trying to shield himself from stones being hurled at him.  She slid him
  awkwardly from the sofa to the floor, holding him as he cried.  She
  stroked his hair, whispering to him like he was a child, and ignoring
  him every time he stopped sobbing long enough to yell at her to go away.
  
  Eventually, his protests dwindled to weak sobs that soaked through the
  shoulder of her dress, were absorbed into her skin, and went no farther. 
  This was their sanctuary, and she kept his secrets.    
  
  "I just paid for a funeral for someone else's son," he mumbled, raising
  his face and squinting at the yellow light streaming through their
  bedroom window. "Flowers, a minister, a coffin, everything.  How foolish
  is that?"
  
  Her fingers continued stroking his hair.
  
  "There are others.  Four hundred and sixty other graves, so far.  The
  ones Miss Barton couldn't identify – their headstones just say ‘unknown
  Union soldier.' He might be one of them, but I couldn't check."
  
  "Mr. Mulder, please tell me you did not ask the judge for permission to
  excavate four hundred and sixty graves.  No, never mind.  Of course you
  did."
  
  "One of them could be Sam."
  
  "So let one of them be.  Please.  Choose a grave and mourn it, but stop
  doing this to yourself.  He is not coming back.  You know that.  You
  would never have married me if you truly believed he was coming home. 
  He is in God's hands now, not yours.  Stop holding onto a ghost and let
  him be at peace.  Let yourself be at peace."
  
  His temper kindled, but was snuffed out again for lack of fuel.  She was
  the first person who'd had the courage to say those words to him: "He's
  not coming home."
  
  "Miss Barton's setting up an office in DC.  People can send her
  information about missing soldiers and she'll try to match those names
  with death records, casualty lists…  I told her I'd pay the rent on her
  office.  And that, as she compiles them, I'll print her lists of the
  dead in the paper, free of charge."
   
  He didn't know why he was telling Dana.  He was a grown man and it was
  his money.  He could do what he liked with it.  He didn't need her
  permission.
  
  "Miss Barton will tell you only if she is sure she has found Samuel? 
  Only if she is certain?  She will not send you off on more wild goose
  chases?"
  
  He nodded tiredly, and then let his head fall back and rest on the sofa
  cushion so he stared at the ceiling. He closed his eyelids over his
  throbbing eyes, listening to his heartbeat deep inside his ears.  The
  sound was hypnotic, lulling him like the ocean, and he obeyed mindlessly
  as Dana had him crawl up on the sofa and stretch out.  She pulled off
  his boots, put a cool, wet cloth on his forehead, covered him with a
  blanket, and let him sleep.  When he woke, the bedroom was dark, and
  Dana and Emily were asleep on the bed.  He shucked his trousers off and
  joined them, pulling them close so they couldn't get away.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  He passed the florist's shop every day, but the next morning, for the
  first time in ages, he stopped.  While Melly had adored getting flowers,
  he'd thought Dana might find it silly, especially from him.
  
  "Pink roses, Mr. Mulder?" the florist asked as he stepped inside,
  recalling his usual order.  He'd once been a very good customer.
  
  "White," he decided, and took the card and pen the man offered.  "To my
  house, please."
  
  For Melly, he'd always written "I love you" and signed his name.  Not
  overly imaginative, but she'd never read the message, anyway.  For Dana,
  though, he looked at the blank card uncertainly, then once again fell
  back on Whitman, paraphrasing:
  
  "Silence, the flippant expression, the darkness, the accustomed routine
  – if these conceal me from others or from myself, they do not conceal me
  from you.  Underneath them and within them, you see me lurk.  I whisper
  with my lips close to your ear, ‘I have cared for others, but I care for
  none better than you.' M."
  
  The florist stood ready to blot the ink, assuring him the roses would be
  delivered within the hour.
  
  "Are you finished with the card, sir?"
  
  Mulder hummed thoughtfully, holding it in midair and considering.  He
  read it again, analyzing all the possible interpretations.  He didn't
  mind people laughing at him, but he minded looking foolish in front of
  Dana.  A simple "Thank you.  I'm sorry.  M." would have sufficed and
  been much safer.
  
  "Sir, is there an error?  Did you want to rewrite it?"
  
  "No," he answered, laying the card on the counter.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  Mulder was the product of the highest class of a rigidly stratified
  society, and he shared many of its beliefs: the sacredness of marriage
  and family; honor above all else; duty to God and country.  What he
  lacked was polite hypocrisy.  He seldom set out to turn the world on its
  ear, but he often seemed to.  He was a truth-teller in a culture that
  didn't like being confronted with the truth. Women didn't have "legs,"
  they had "limbs," and menus listed chicken "bosoms" instead of
  "breasts." And where babies came from, no one seemed to know –
  apparently there was a pandemic of virgin births.
  
  When confronted with a logical, intelligent argument, he was willing to
  listen, and that was what had his stepfather's drawers in a twist this
  morning: The Evening Star had printed an editorial by a woman writer,
  under the woman writer's name.  Not a ladylike piece on fashion, or a
  florid, laughable serial romance, but an editorial on women's suffrage. 
  Congress was rumbling about an amendment giving ex-slaves the right to
  vote – male ex-slaves, not females, and Mrs. Elizabeth Cady Stanton had
  taken issue with that.  At best Mulder was lukewarm on women voting, but
  he'd thought she made a good argument, and had printed her article.
  
  And somehow that had become his Uncle Spender's business.
  
  Mulder propped his elbow on his desk, his chin on his elbow, and tried
  to look interested instead of amused.  The editorial had run the day
  Mulder left for Andersonville, so the tirade was pointless.  It was
  almost a week too late to stop the presses. There was a stack of
  potential articles and invoices and correspondence three inches high on
  his desk, and he itched to sort through it as he pretended to listen.
  
  Spender had worked himself into a tizzy, pacing and sputtering about
  propriety and decency until little specks of saliva formed in the
  corners of his mouth.  
  
  "Are you listening?" Spender demanded.
  
  "Yes, I'm single-handedly destroying the most sacred foundations of our
  society.  Debasing the holy bastions of motherhood and femininity. 
  Disgracing my family.  Angels are weeping.  Please go on."
  
  Spender continued his rant, not catching Mulder's sarcasm.
  
  Starting to get bored, Mulder tilted his head to see out his office
  door, looking for something that might require his immediate attention. 
  As luck would have it, there was.  His secretary was approaching, and
  Mulder gave him his plaintive, rescue-me look.
  
  "Mr. Mulder, your wife is here."
  
  "Oh," he answered, playing along. "Thank you.  Make her comfortable and
  I'll be right out.  Uncle, if you'll excuse me…" Mulder stood, walked
  around his desk, and headed for the door. "We can continue this another
  time."
  
  "I'll wait."
  
  Mulder huffed in annoyance.  He needed his office; he had a week's worth
  of work waiting for him.  He stood in the lobby, hands on his hips,
  trying to think what he was going to do.  To his surprise, he saw his
  secretary talking with Dana, taking her coat and gesturing for her to
  sit down on the bench near the front door.
  
  "Dana?" he said, quickly crossing the busy lobby. "Is everything all
  right?  My God, what's wrong?  Is Emmy all right?"  
  
  She only been to his office the one time, and it wasn't like her to just
  appear for no reason.  Unlike Melly, Dana didn't often have a crisis,
  and when she did, she handled it and told him about it afterward.
     
  "Emily is fine.  Everything is fine.  I just wanted to talk to you."
  
  "All right."
  
  "In private," she requested, looking at the people milling past.
  
  "All right," he repeated, starting to get nervous.  If she was angry
  enough to come to the office, he was in trouble.  Then he remembered the
  roses – and the note – he'd sent a few hours earlier, and his collar
  started getting tight.
  
  Byers' office was vacant, so he guided her inside and closed the door,
  then waited, trying to look nonchalant.   
  
  "All right; I'm listening," he said impatiently.  There was a handful of
  loose metal type on Byers' desk and he fiddled with it, rearranging the
  letters.
  
  "You are not listening.  You look like the rancher is castrating the
  bull calves, and you are the next one waiting in the pen."
  
  "You never learned the English word for ‘consensus' but you learned
  ‘castrating'?" he observed, shifting his hips as he leaned back against
  the edge of the desk. 
  
  "You are busy.  I am sorry.  I should not have come.  We can talk
  later."
  
  "Dana, you're already here. Yes, I'm busy, but it's obviously important. 
  What is it you want to talk about?"
  
  Aside from him making a blubbering fool of himself the previous
  afternoon.  And acting on whatever romantic notion had seized him that
  morning. Castrate was the proper word: he should get her a little velvet
  case to keep his testicles in since he obviously wasn't using them.
  
  "No, we can talk later."
  
  "No, we can talk now," he responded, annoyed with the butterflies in his
  stomach. "Whatever's on your mind, I'd like for you to just say it.  And
  I'll apologize, say I don't know what I was thinking, promise it won't
  happen again, and that will be that."
  
  "I am going to have a baby."
  
  "Oh," he exhaled, then moved his lips silently a few more times.  His
  knees felt weak, so he sat on the top of Byers' desk, staring at her in
  wonder. "Not another bad bowl of Harvey's chowder?" 
    
  "We have not had dinner at Harvey's Restaurant in months."
  
  "Yes, of course I know that.  What I mean is, are you certain?"
  
  "I just saw the doctor.  Yes, I am certain."
  
  "Oh," he said again, a broad smile spreading across his face as her news
  sunk in. "Oh my God.  You're going to have a baby.  We're going to have
  a baby.  My God – sit down." He hopped down from the desk and shoved a
  stack of files off a wooden chair, offering it to her. "How far?"
  
  "About two months."
  
  "Two months – that's, that's a winter baby.  Early next winter. 
  Christmas.  Sit down, Dana."
  
  "I do not need to sit down.  I feel fine."
  
  "Sit down.  Make me feel better.  I don't feel fine."
  
  She sat down, smoothing her skirt and then looking at him like babies
  were a perfectly normal part of life.  No matter how many times a woman
  conveyed those words to him – Melly in tears, terrified with Samuel,
  then euphoric when she'd written to him years later, and then now – the
  news was still awe-inspiring.  The miracle of it: what flesh, love, and
  God could create.
  
  "You're certain?" he asked again.
  
  "Yes, I am certain."
  
  He stared at her like she might look differently than she had a few
  hours earlier.  They – he and Dana – were going to have a child
  together.  They had Emily, but this time he'd been present at the
  conception instead of just the birth.  It was real.  They – he and Dana
  – were real.  Suddenly, he was playing poker with real money instead of
  buttons, and he'd better not be bluffing.  
  
  "I'm taking you home," he announced. "So you can rest.  Let me find
  Byers and I'll borrow his buggy."
  
  "I am not tired. And I took the streetcar. I thought I would go on to
  the market.  There is no need-"
  
  "You're not taking the streetcar home.  What if your skirt gets caught
  in the wheels? And you're certainly not going to the market.  Everyone
  pushing, jostling around…" He paused, thinking. "Would it be
  unreasonable if I carried you to the door?"
  
  Her mouth twitched as she tried not to laugh at him. "Are you going to
  be like this for the next seven months?"
  
  "Oh no, I am going to get much worse."
   
  *~*~*~*
  
  Unlike most wealthy families, they didn't have a huge domestic staff,
  and the servants they had were trusted, discreet, and went home at
  night.  Poppy ran the house with the assistance of a few maids, a cook,
  and a gardener.  Emily had a nursemaid, but between Poppy, Dana, and
  Mulder, the woman seldom had much to do aside from laundering diapers. 
  There was a groom and a few stable boys who served double-duty as house
  and errand boys when necessary, but not the legions of servants most
  households thought they required.  Less people around had meant less
  people to explain Melissa's behavior to, but also suited Mulder's
  reclusive personality.  It made the house seem intimate, as though a
  family lived there rather than a stage production.
  
  "Bas bleu," he teased Dana, who was curled up in the library with her
  nose in some magazine. "Blue stocking," he translated when she glanced
  up.
  
  Dana looked down at her white silk stocking feet, only her toes peeking
  out from under the blanket.  She pondered briefly, then went back to
  reading. 
  
  "A literary woman," he explained, and she "um-hummed" him. 
  
  Emily was tired and fussy, so he sank into the upholstered leather chair
  beside Dana's, settled Emily against his chest, and propped his sock
  feet up to the fire.  They usually went to his mother's on Sunday, but
  it was raining and Emily already had a cold. Dana wasn't showing yet,
  nor had they announced her pregnancy, but ladies in the family way
  avoided being seen in public.  And Mulder needed time to relax.  It had
  been an eventful week, to put it mildly.
  
  Alone in the house, they'd had pancakes for breakfast, then, knowing
  when they were on to a good thing, again for lunch.  He'd managed an old
  shirt and trousers, but Dana got no farther than putting a dressing gown
  on over her underclothes.  Propriety be damned: this level of sloth was
  so wonderful it was probably a sin.
  
  "E-p-i-d-e-m-i-c," she spelled, her forehead wrinkling. 
  
  "Epidemic," he answered. "A plague; when many people are sick.  Or, it
  might mean something widely popular that the writer doesn't approve of. 
  For example, we saw an epidemic of ugly little hats in Savannah."
  
  She nodded, toying with her braid as she concentrated.  Dana must have
  spoken some English as a girl; her accent was noticeable, but it veiled
  her words rather than masked them.  She hadn't been taught to read and
  write it, though.  As a merchant's daughter, she'd probably completed
  sixth grade at a local school or with a tutor - eighth grade, maybe, if
  her parents valued education for girls, and learned to read and write in
  Gaelic.
  
  "Do you want me to read it to you?" he offered.
  
  "No, I want to," she mumbled, not really listening.  He watched her lips
  move as she tried to sound out a word, then asked, "What is put-re-
  faction?"
  
  "Spell it." When she did, he answered, "Putrefaction.  To decay.  Rot. 
  Maybe to pollute or spoil."
  
  She nodded again. "And p-r-o-p-h-y-l-a-x-i-s?" 
  
  "Prophylaxis," he pronounced slowly. "It means to prevent.  A
  preventative, as in ‘prophylactic.' It's an, um…  For when…  If, uh… 
  Well, never mind, but it's a little late for it now.  What in the world
  are you reading?" He leaned sideways, looking over her shoulder,
  relieved but puzzled. "Is that my Scientific American?  The Treatment of
  Cholera?  Why do you have that?"
  
  She clutched the journal as if she expected him to snatch it from her.
  "Because I want to read it.  You said you had finished with it."    
  
  "All right, Miss Difficult.  I was expecting Godey's Lady's Journal, but
  read whatever you like.  I'm just wondering why you find cholera, of all
  things, so engrossing."
  
  "It killed my sister."
  
  Emily coughed, then went back to sucking her thumb.  Her eyelids grew
  heavier with each blink.  He rubbed her back, watching Dana out of the
  corner of his eye. 
  
  "I didn't know you had a sister."
  
  She buried her nose in the journal again, pretending she hadn't heard
  him. "She died," she responded when he continued to look at her
  questioningly. "Of cholera.  I was seventeen; she was twenty."
  
  "What was her name?"
  
  "Melissa."
  
  He exhaled, making a sound between an amused snort and a wistful sigh.
  "Melly?"
  
  "Missy."  
   
  He waited, but she didn't seem inclined to discuss it.  Asking would be
  a waste of breath, so he left one hand on Emily's back and picked up his
  newspaper with the other.
  
  "Dr. Waterston had asked her to marry him," she added several minutes
  later, as though it was information she'd just recalled.
  
  He lowered the paper, turning his head toward her. "And when she died,
  he asked you," he guessed softly.
  
  "Yes."
  
  "It must have seemed like an excellent match to your parents: a newly-
  come Irish girl marrying a wealthy American doctor.  They would have
  been delighted.  They might have even pushed their daughter, if she was
  hesitant.  Society ostracizes immigrants, so how fortunate not one, but
  both of their pretty daughters would find a gentleman who wanted to
  marry for love.  And once the marriage is done, there is no going back."
  
  "You are a gentleman." 
  
  "But I am also a freethinker, and my blue-blooded ancestors are still
  scratching their heads and wondering where I came from.  I print what I
  want, I marry whom I want, and I live with the consequences."
  
  She digested that, then stared straight ahead as she asked, "You wanted
  Sarah, but married Melissa.  Did you feel cheated you did not get your
  first choice?"
  
  "No," he answered immediately. "No, I never felt Melissa was just a
  substitute for her sister.  Nor do I feel you're a substitute for Melly. 
  I care for each of you, but in different ways."
  
  "Oh," she said, finished discussing the topic.  
   
  "It wouldn't have been different if he'd married your sister."
  
  She shrugged and went back to reading.
  
  "No, Dana, listen to me.  It would not have been different.  He would
  not have been different.  Not with you, not with your sister, nor Dori,
  nor any other woman.  When a man isn't content with himself, no woman
  can make him content, no matter how hard she tries.  He'll keep
  searching for one who can and wondering why he cannot find her."
    
  Emily yawned and surrendered to her nap, warm and heavy and safe against
  his chest.      
   
  He waited, but Dana continued to stare at her magazine.  Her lips and
  eyes weren't moving, though; she wasn't really reading.
  
  "Yes, men are men.  Our heads are easily turned, but not our hearts, and
  we know the difference. At least, most of us know the difference."
  
  There was still no response.  He couldn't tell that she was even
  listening to his diatribe, or whether he was soothing or upsetting her.
  He gave up and carried Emily to the nursery, putting her down in her
  crib.  One of her cheeks was red from being pressed against his shirt,
  and he stroked it, watching her sleep.
  
  "I care for you as well," Dana said from the doorway, startling him.  He
  hadn't heard her come up the stairs. "I am just not good at saying it."
  
  He left the nursery door open a few inches, and followed Dana down the
  hall to their bedroom.  She slipped off her robe, draping it over the
  end of the bed, then crawled under the covers in her chemise and
  pantalets, giving him a nice view as she did.  Split-crotch pantalets: a
  God-given boon to mankind.
  
  "How is Harvey doing in there?" he asked, laying down beside her and
  putting his hand on her flat abdomen.
  
  "Fine.  He liked the pancakes." She put her hand over his and looked
  thoughtful. "But he hates his nickname.  He says his father is very
  strange."
  
  He snuggled against her, holding her close. "When did you realize you
  cared for me?" he asked.
  
  She thought for a while before she answered, "I think it was when you
  told me how Samuel loved splashing through mud puddles in the buggy. 
  You said when he was six, he would watch for them and then you would
  drive through them as fast as you could.  It was a game, and after a
  while, you did it so much that the horse-" 
   
  "Porthos."
  
  "Yes, Porthos would bolt through puddles whether you told him to or not. 
  You said that long after Samuel outgrew the game, Porthos still did it."
  
  "He still does it; that's why I keep blinders on him. He's not a bright
  animal."
  
  "The way you talked about Sam - how much you loved your son, how proud
  you were of your family.  I wanted…" She stopped. "I wanted to take away
  your pain.  And I marveled at your strength.  You had lost so much, and
  yet that you still had faith.  Hope.  Love.  I…" She paused again,
  looking self-conscious. 
  
  "I thought the very same thing about you," he confessed, then changed
  the subject slightly. "I remember telling you that story: about Samuel
  and Porthos.  That was the evening before Dori and Benjamin came.  It
  was storming, and I kept hanging around the kitchen after dinner,
  bothering you, and putting off going out in the rain."
  
  "Sometime that night, I dreamt you were in my bedroom, watching me."
  
  "What an odd dream," he commented. "What in the world would I have been
  doing in your bedroom?"
  
  "Uh-mumm," she shrugged, lacing her fingers through his, relaxing. 
  
  He grinned, raising his head to whisper in her ear, "That old chemise
  you slept in?  I know why you took it off to nurse the baby.  You might
  as well have worn nothing.  In the morning light, after you'd kicked off
  the covers, I could see right through it. It was pretty, earlier,
  though: billowing around as you opened the window during the storm."
  
  Instantly, she came alive again, rolling him on his back and straddling
  his hips. "You were watching me!  You are bad."
  
  "I have no idea what you're talking about," he protested, laughing and
  grabbing her hands.  In one easy motion, he flipped them so he was on
  top of her, still holding her wrists. "I think you like me being bad."
  
  He kissed her, covering her mouth hungrily with his.  According to the
  marriage manuals, most couples had intercourse twelve times a year. He
  and Dana probably averaged twelve times a week, and between his trip to
  Andersonville, the miserable aftermath, and her news yesterday, there
  had been a long dry spell.
  
  He pushed himself up suddenly, remembering. "We can't do this. My God,
  Dana, why didn't you say something?"
  
  She licked her swollen lips, looking confused. "What was I supposed to
  say?"
  
  "The baby."
  
  "She is asleep.  Please come back here."
  
  "No, the other baby.  You're going to have a baby.  I mean, you're
  already going to have a baby.  That's- that's the purpose of this. 
  You're my wife, not my mistress."
  
  She raised her head, whispering so he could feel her breath in his ear,
  "If you do not stop being foolish and come here right this second, I am
  going to tie you to the headboard, strip you naked, and do whatever I
  want to you."
  
  "Uh, ba- I, uh… Duh," he responded. "Yes."
   
  *~*~*~*
  
  Sometimes, during a lazy weekend, Mulder thought he could stand life as
  a gentleman of leisure.  Then Monday morning came.  He would wake before
  the rest of the city, wipe the sleep from his eyes, inhale the energy of
  a new workday, and the week would start anew, holding infinite
  potential.
  
  As she bolted from their bed and ran, nude, for the basin in the corner
  of their bedroom, Dana didn't seem to be greeting dawn with the same
  enthusiasm.
  
  He'd been slipping on his clothes in the darkness, but stopped
  buttoning, lit the lamp, and then stood, watching her uncomfortably.
  "Can I get you anything?" he asked as the retching stopped momentarily. 
  When she didn't answer, he poured a glass of tepid water for her from
  the pitcher on the dresser. "Here." 
  
  She pushed her long hair back from her face and then took the glass
  sheepishly, taking a sip.
  
  "I was trying not to wake you," he said, rolling up his shirt sleeves. 
  It was his shirt from the previous day; he hadn't made it downstairs to
  wash or shave yet, and it was so early that Emily was still asleep. 
  
  Dana nodded that she understood, swallowing and seeming focused on not
  vomiting rather than speaking.
  
  She took another few sips and, after a bit, exhaled and made her way
  back to their bed.  She stopped long enough to retrieve her nightgown
  from the floor, pull it over her head, and then lay down carefully.  
  
  "Would you like tea?" Mulder offered.
  
  She nodded again.
  
  "Ginger tea?" he asked.
  
  An unhappy furrow appeared between her eyebrows.
  
  "Chamomile," he amended. "With honey." He ran his cool fingertips across
  her forehead, smoothing out the furrow, and then promised he'd be back
  in a few minutes.
  
  After a lazy weekend without seeing a soul besides Dana and Emily, it
  was a little jarring to find Poppy already in the kitchen, lighting a
  fire in the stove.  Sadie sat on the floor near the pantry, gnawing a
  slice of apple.  These days, more often than not, she had her daughter
  at work with her.  There was still much public speculation about who the
  father was, but Poppy had never said and he hadn't asked.
  
  "I didn't hear you come in," he said neutrally, buttoning his shirt
  closed. "You're early."
  
  He'd seen her briefly when he driven Dana home from the newspaper
  Friday, but otherwise their last contact had been the day before, when
  Dana had angrily ordered Poppy out of their bedroom.
  
  "Dana wants tea.  And toast.  Get it ready and I'll take it up to her,"
  he said, cordial but cool.
  
  Poppy nodded obediently and got a teacup down from the cupboard before
  adding more wood to the stove.   
  
  He stood beside the kitchen table, waiting.
  
  "Do you want tea too, Fox?  Or hot water to shave?" she asked, the
  picture of the solicitous, almost shy housekeeper. "Or coffee?"
  
  "Coffee, in a little bit.  I want to take Dana's tea to her, first." He
  inhaled, then said, "Poppy…"
  
  "I shouldn't have come in," she said quickly, apologetically. "To your
  bedroom.  I'm sorry."
  
  "No," he corrected her. "It was fine that you came to check on me.  Your
  mistake was not leaving when Dana told you to."
  
  "I was worried.  You were upset, Fox."
  
  "You're right: I was.  But it wasn't your business, and Dana told you
  that."
  
  Poppy stared at the floor.  After running his house, caring for Sam –
  and, more often than not, for Melly – for a decade, he imagined it was
  difficult for her to conceive that any part of his life wasn't her
  business.  He expected her to get angry, but instead she just said
  softly, "All right."
  
  "That will not happen again," he told her, his voice still calm but
  firm. "I don't want to hear any more complaints about Dana, and I don't
  want you questioning anything she tells you to do.  She's my wife.  I
  expect you to respect that."
  
  "I know," Poppy said in the same submissive voice. 
  
  He kept waiting for her to be cross and self-righteous, so her quick and
  uncharacteristic acquiescence was unsettling.
  
  "I know she's your wife," she repeated. "I know you care for her."
  
  Though the stove was getting warm, she shivered, and then was still
  again, staring at the teacup in her hand.  
  
  "Poppy, this is important to me: you being kind to Dana.  Helping her. 
  Not making things harder for her.  Will you do that for me?"
  
  "Of course I will," she said softly. "Whatever you want, Fox."
  
  He shifted his feet, uncomfortable but unsure why.  Something was
  different about her – between them – but he couldn't put his finger on
  what it was.  
  
  "So it's settled, then?" he asked.
  
  She nodded, looking down at the floor.
  
  Above him, he heard a bedspring squeak and then quick footsteps as Dana
  made for the basin again, her morning sickness returning.  The teakettle
  wasn't boiling yet and Poppy had forgotten to make toast, so he filled a
  pitcher with fresh, cold water and picked up a tin of soda crackers
  instead.
  
  Sadie noticed the crackers and silently raised one sticky hand, wanting
  one.  Mulder stooped down, opening the tin and breaking a cracker in
  half before giving it to the pretty little girl.  As Sadie took it, he
  watched her, thinking how much she resembled Samuel with her straight
  black hair and dark brown eyes.  
  
  "Does she need anything?" he asked.
  
  Poppy looked at him uncertainly.
  
  "Your daughter," he clarified. "Does she get enough to eat?  Does she
  need a winter coat?  Does she have a doctor when she's sick?  Does she
  need anything?"
  
  "No," Poppy answered softly. "She don't need nothing. I take good care
  of her."
  
  "I'm sure you do." Sadie offered the damp cracker back to him, and he
  smiled. "She looks like my Sam."
  
  "Yes."
  
  He gave Sadie a quick pat and stood up.  As he did, he noticed Poppy
  shiver again, then wrap her arms around herself and look embarrassed.
   
  "I should get back to Dana," he said, and she nodded. "You might want to
  get a shawl.  You're cold."
   
  She nodded again, and he turned and walked away.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  By nature, he was prone to rumination, but not introspection.  When a
  topic, particularly a mystery, tweaked his interest, he would dwell on
  it so long he should have filed a claim, built a cabin, and paid taxes. 
  He wasn't, however, inclined to long, soul-searching examinations of his
  heart.  He tended to act first, think second, and then, and only if
  necessary, introspect.
   
  Anyone else would have carefully weighed the consequences of marrying a
  woman he barely knew - considering that she was grieving, she brought
  nothing except herself and her illegitimate daughter to the marriage,
  and she would never be fully accepted by genteel society – but Mulder
  just proposed.  He liked her, she liked him, there was a child… Two
  lives in shambles and one ruined world. It was a self-arranged arranged
  marriage, and generally, a pleasant one.  Debating sentiment after the
  fact would have been a polite, useless form of mental masturbation.
  
  But Dana snuck up on a man, damn it.  She stole like a thief who gave
  instead of took, rearranging their little arrangement.  
  
  He cared for her, and, if pressed, probably would have answered
  affirmatively that he loved her.  Neither was a revelation.  It wasn't a
  passionate, reckless, "in-love" love, but a gentle fondness and
  devotion.  It wasn't outlandish for a man to love his pretty, attentive,
  pregnant wife.  In fact, it was the polite thing to do.
  
  The revelation, which arrived one unseasonably cool June evening while
  at his desk in the library, was that he was happy with her.
  
  Stunned, he stopped writing and put down his pen.  He was happy with
  her.  Content.  This was how it felt.  He remembered, though it was like
  trying on a suit he hadn't worn in fifteen years and being awed it still
  fit.  He leaned back in his chair, propped his feet up on his desk, and
  watched her, studying on it for a long time.   
  
  "I'm happy you're my wife," he announced out of the blue, beginning in
  the middle of a conversation.
  
  Dana had been steadying Emily as she toddled around the library, and she
  paused, picking her daughter up and settling her on her hip.  She
  considered, taking time to figure out what he was talking about, then
  answered, "Well, you said you would be."   
  
  He nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I did. I didn't realize I'd be right,
  though." 
  
  "You did not?  You asked me to marry you when you did not think you
  would be happy with me?  Did you feel that sorry for me?"
  
  "Of course not, but happiness is like the color red.  There are
  different shades of it.  Sometimes it's so vivid it's blinding, and
  other times, a pale, faded memory.  I told you I thought I would be
  happy if you were my wife, and I am just telling you that I am. I am
  happy you are my wife.  As opposed to you being someone else's wife.  Or
  someone else being my wife."
  
  He closed his mouth, worrying the inside of his lower lip.  He started
  conversations with her sounding so intelligent and ended them sounding
  like the village idiot had been given a podium.
  
  Somewhere in the universe, Cupid put his hands on his hips, sighed, and
  shook his head in frustration.
  
  Mulder cleared his throat, recovering his poise. "Anyway, I was just
  telling you.  For pity's sake, put Emmy down, Dana.  Carrying one child
  at a time is plenty-"
  
  A floorboard squeaked, and he noticed Poppy and her two-year old
  daughter in the hallway, probably coming to tell him she was leaving for
  the day.  
  
  He stopped scolding, and Dana turned to see what he was staring at. 
  Poppy's expression indicated she'd been listening for some time and was
  upset about what she'd heard.
  
  "Well, I suppose our secret's out," he commented, breaking the tense
  silence. "Poppy, I'd appreciate if you wouldn't tell-"
  
  Poppy and her daughter were already gone.  All that remained was the
  echo of her quick footsteps to the back of the house.   
  
  "Oh, shit," he grumbled, getting up from his desk and chasing after her. 
  He caught up in the kitchen, standing in front of the back door to block
  her path.
  
  "Poppy, what's wrong?"
  
  She wiped her nose with her free hand and answered shakily, "Nothing is
  wrong."
  
  "I know you heard us talking.  Are you angry I didn't tell you about the
  baby?  We haven't told anyone yet.  Not even my mother.  We only found
  out a month ago." 
  
  "I – I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to listen.  No, I'm not angry.  Why would
  I be angry?  She's your wife.  Of course she'll have children."
  
  "Poppy, I thought we had an understanding."
  
  "We do.  Fox, please move.  I want to go home now."
  
  "No, tell me what's wrong," he insisted.
  
  "Nothing's wrong.  I'm tired.  I want to go home."
  
  Focusing on the floor, she jerked blindly at her apron strings.  Once
  she was free of it, she flung her apron at the peg beside the door and
  grabbed her daughter's sweater, guiding the child's arms into it
  haphazardly.
  
  "Will you let me go?"
  
  "Of course.  In fact, let me drive you.  It's too cold and wet for you
  to walk or take the streetcar; You've been sick, and Sadie could catch a
  chill."
  
  "The master of the house don't drive his housekeeper home," she said,
  buttoning Sadie's sweater randomly. "It's not proper.  People would
  talk."
  
  "You and Dana only let me think I'm the master of this house.  Don't
  think I don't know that.  You're- Poppy, are you crying?" he asked in
  surprise.  
  
  "No, I'm not crying."  She stood up, facing him but still keeping her
  head down. "She's your wife.  I know you care for her.  I'm glad she
  makes you happy.  I'm glad another baby makes you happy.  I'm foolish,
  that's all. You know how foolish women are."
  
  "Well, you can't be foolish.  It makes my stomach hurt." Nothing made
  him as ill at ease as a woman in tears. "And you can't be angry with me
  for not telling you.  I need you now more than ever."
  
  "You do?" she whispered, sniffing.
  
  He shifted uncomfortably, moving away from her. 
  
  "With another baby coming?  Of course I do.  Dana's not going to be able
  to go out.  She'll need to rest, except, of course, she doesn't think
  she needs to rest.  I've been wondering, if you could- In a few more
  months, could you to stay at night so she won't have to get up with
  Emmy?  And could you stay and help with the baby when it comes?  Or
  would that interfere with, uh…"
  
  He nodded to Sadie, putting it as delicately as possible.  
  
  Her affair with Sadie's father appeared to have cooled, but there would
  be others.  She was more than a decade past the age when women married,
  and taking white lovers was her only choice.  As a light-skinned mulatto
  woman with Indian blood, she was trapped between three cultures.  Most
  Indians and Negroes viewed her with suspicion, and she couldn't legally
  marry a white man.  As his father once noted, she was every man's
  mistress and no man's wife.
  
  Of course, it had been his father who'd discovered him with Poppy that
  night at Harvard.  Mulder had rearranged and creatively edited the facts
  a bit when he'd told Dana the story.
  
  "No, it won't interfere," she said softly. "I could stay."
  
  "All- All right then.  If you won't let me drive you home, did you at
  least bring a coat?"
  
  She shook her head no, turning to leave.  Poppy was a proud woman, and
  she disliked him seeing her cry even more than he disliked seeing her.
  
  "Then take mine." He pulled it off the hook and draped it around her
  shoulders.  She was tall, so it wasn't a bad fit. "Just for tonight."
  
  "Thank you." She picked up her daughter and left, closing the back door
  softly after her.  He exhaled, sinking into a wooden chair beside the
  stove.
  
  Jesus.  Women.
  
  "Did she name her daughter before or after Melissa died?" Dana asked
  from behind him.
  
  "I don't know."  He looked over his shoulder to see her standing at the
  edge of the kitchen, holding Emily and looking unhappy. "After,
  probably.  Why?"
  
  "Sadie; it is a nickname for Sarah." 
  
  He shrugged. "She and Melly's sister Sarah were close.  The four of us
  grew up together.  It's a common name."
  
  Dana blinked like he was telling a joke and she thought she might have
  missed the punch line. "It was what you and Melissa planned to name your
  baby."
  
  Another shrug.
    
  "You are right, Mr. Mulder.  You can be a little dense."
  
  *~*~*~*  
  
  Once in a while, right in the middle of an otherwise ordinary life, a
  man gets a fairy tale.  It begins with "once upon a time there was a
  disillusioned knight, a new baby, and a fair, though un-biddable,
  princess," and before he knew it – or could avoid it – something
  extraordinary happened.
  
  One year-olds weren't known for their patience, and there was ice cream
  involved, raising the probability of a tantrum to a dangerous level. 
  The birthday party needed a hostess, but when he went upstairs in search
  of her, Mulder found Dana in the empty ballroom, checking her figure in
  the floor-length mirrors that lined one wall.  He leaned against the
  doorway, grinning like a little boy who'd just gotten by with something
  rotten.
  
  "Yes, it does show," he said softly. 
  
  She turned sideways, examining the slight outline of her abdomen against
  the front of her dress. "Do you think people will notice?"
  
  "I hope so."
  
  He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets, ambling toward her.
  
  "There's about a, uh, a dozen people downstairs – at our invitation -
  bearing gifts and chanting for cake and ice cream.  It's a rough crowd,
  Dana: the Byers' family, Frohike, a basset hound, some senator's widow… 
  They have dessert forks and they're getting restless.  It could turn
  ugly."
  
  She laughed quietly, her hair glistening in a fusion of gold and crimson
  as she turned.  She'd opened the heavy drapes, and the sun spilled in,
  illuminating long rectangles across the polished floor.
  
  "I will take my chances."
  
  "Then you're a brave woman." He stood in front of her, smiling.
  "Personally, I'm afraid to get between Melvin Frohike and chocolate
  cake.  I came upstairs to get reinforcements.  And possibly my gun. 
  Can't be too careful around Frohike and cake."
  
  "And I thought you were fearless, Mr. Mulder," she teased.
  
  "Spiders," he admitted sheepishly. "And I'm not so fond of fire.  Every
  hero has his tragic flaw.  Achilles, Oedipus, Samson…"
  
  "You snore.  Is that not a tragic flaw?"
  
  "Only if you're the one trying to sleep next to me." He chuckled. "Which
  I'm glad you are.  It's always seemed a shame to waste this room.  I
  don't remember it ever being danced in.  Do you waltz?"
  
  She shook her head, but offered her arms.
  
  "When I step forward, you step back, one foot at a time, then put your
  feet together.  Back, back, together.  Back, back, together." He started
  slowly, and she copied his movements. "Good, again.  Back, back,
  together.  Just go where I guide you." He turned her slightly, moving
  them in a slow, graceful waltz around the empty ballroom. "Back, back,
  together.  One, two, three; one, two, three.  And now you're dancing. 
  Watch us in the mirror.  We look nice together."
  
  The hem of her skirt whispered against the floor as they glided, the
  only noise besides their feet in the room.  In the mirrors, a tall,
  dark-haired, sleepy-eyed man in black trousers, a white shirt, and a
  gray silk vest whirled in endless circles with a pretty, petite woman
  with auburn hair.  They moved well, complementing each other in a way
  that made old romantics smile and comment, "Oh, what a pretty couple."
  
  "Your bodice is navy," he realized, watching the reflection, then
  looking down at her. "Not black."  
  
  Her full taffeta skirt was black, but the new bodice, made looser to fit
  during her pregnancy, wasn't.  It was the first time he'd seen her
  wearing an entire not-black garment, except for underclothes, since the
  plantation.  It had been much more than a year since her father and
  brothers died, but less than a year since she'd found out about
  Waterston.  Of course, Waterston had been dead for some time before Dana
  had known, so the math was sketchy.
  
  "Who were you mourning?" he asked out of curiosity.
  
  "Everything, I suppose."
  
  He nodded, understanding.  Sometimes it wasn't a single person, but a
  way of life that died.
  
  "My father," she added, and he nodded again.  
  
  And sometimes it was necessary to pin grief to a name so people would
  understand.
  
  "I think you've waltzed before." She was too light on her feet to have
  no idea what she was doing.
  
  "Perhaps I have, but it is still nice to have you teach me."
  
  "Harvey's okay?  This isn't too fast?"
  
  "She is fine."
  
  He raised his eyebrows in false distress. "When did my he become a she?"
  
  "When she discovered she was to be named Harvey."
  
  He shifted his hand on her waist, running his thumb over slight swell
  evidencing the baby's presence. 
  
  "I love you," he said simply, causing her to miss a step. "You don't
  have to answer, although I'd rather you didn't laugh.  I just wanted you
  to know."
  
  She waited, probably for him to qualify that: to say he loved her, but
  not like Melly.  He loved her, but he wasn't in love with her.  Or
  perhaps to see if he'd spend the next week avoiding her and pretending
  he hadn't said it at all.
  
  "If you were going to answer, though, Dana, now would be a good time,"
  he said nervously, feeling naked. "If I would ask you if you love me,
  what would your answer be?  If I asked you?"
  
  "If you asked me, think I would say ‘yes,'" she said softly.
  
  "Good." He did his agreed-on-the-price-of-a-horse nod. "That makes
  things simpler."
  
  "Yes." She cleared her throat. "We have guests.  We should be
  downstairs.  Everyone is waiting." 
  
  "Let them wait," he responded, holding her close and gliding in slow,
  graceful arcs around the silent ballroom.
   
  *~*~*~*
  
  Trust Frohike to notice, and comment, first.  He took one look at Dana
  as she came down the steps, leaned close to Mulder, and mumbled,
  "Congratulations," in his ear.
  
  "Thank you," Mulder responded, not even bothering to pretend he didn't
  understand.   
  
  Dana found a seat beside Mulder's mother, and held Emily on her lap. 
  The birthday girl, satiated by handfuls of cake and sticky ice cream,
  was sound asleep with smears of chocolate icing still decorating her
  dress.  
  
  "How far?" Frohike pursued.
  
  "Almost five months," Mulder whispered back, leaning against a tree in
  the back yard and sipping his iced tea.  The ladies were congregated in
  the shade, and Grace paced languidly, looking for crumbs.  His
  stepfather, thank God, hadn't seen any political or financial gain in
  attending a one year-old's birthday, and hadn't blessed them with his
  presence.
  
  "Hoping for a boy or girl?"
  
  "Either would be fine," he answered, trying to talk without moving his
  lips so as not to attract attention.
  
  "That means you want a boy.  Any problems with the pregnancy?"
  
  "No.  Not so far."
  
  "Any problems with the conception?" he asked, and Mulder gaped in
  disbelief. "I'm being thorough," Frohike defended himself, gesturing his
  innocence. 
  
  "Go to Hell." Mulder laughed, moving away and sitting on the grass in
  front of the bench where Dana and his mother were sitting.  
  
  "There's my precious boy," his mother said, smiling kindly. "Fox, where
  on Earth has your father gotten to?"
  
  "He's in the house," Mulder answered easily.   
  
  His mother nodded and went back to watching the others and enjoying the
  pretty summer day.  She was as elegant as she'd always been, but she
  didn't seem to recall anything that had happened in the last two years. 
  The doctor believed grief had brought on a stroke, blocking out her
  recollection of Melissa and Bill Mulder's death.  To her, Samuel was
  still thirteen, and her husband and daughter-in-law were always just in
  the next room.  
  
  Which, in a way, was a blessing.  
  
  While she knew she liked Dana, she had no idea who she was and had
  chastised Mulder more than once for appearing in public with a woman she
  assumed was his mistress.  And Emily, though she saw her at least once a
  week, she always called "Samuel," assuming any baby with her son had to
  be her grandson.  If corrected, she became embarrassed and apologized,
  remembered for a few minutes, then forgot again.  
  
  Mulder had given thought to having her live with him, but she was happy
  in her own home.  She'd lived there for decades and most of her domestic
  staff were like Poppy – more loyal than family – and saw to her every
  need.  Spender wanted little to do with her, aside from pilfering her
  late husband's last name and reputation.  Rumor had it Spender's carnal
  interests weren't inclined toward the fairer sex, and he'd been living
  in a hotel with his disreputable cronies for months, anyway.  Teena
  Mulder, a little confused but still a lady, had tired of her brother-in-
  law and his greasy friends hanging around her house and politely asked
  them to leave.  And when Bill Mulder hadn't come home to make Spender
  leave, she'd sent for her son, who'd relished throwing his uncle out.
  
  Mulder had threatened an annulment – obviously his mother couldn't have
  consented to the marriage if she believed Bill was still alive – and
  Spender had backed off to plot and lick his wounds.
  
  Mulder laid his head back on the wooden bench, closing his eyes as the
  sun filtered through the leaves and caressed his face.  A woman's cool
  fingertips touched his cheek: his mother's touch.  He could have easily
  fallen asleep, but that would make him a poor host, even at so casual a
  get-together.  Instead, he offered to take Emily inside and put her
  down.
  
  "See where your father has gotten to," his mother requested as Dana
  handed him the sleeping toddler.
  
  "I will," he promised, yawning and ambling to the house.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  Byers was bringing the carriage around to collect his family, but
  stopped when he saw Mulder talking to one of the AP reporters on the
  front porch.  The reporter had come directly from the train station, his
  valise still in his hand, and was slightly out of breath from hurrying.
  
  "You're certain?" Mulder asked again, heart pounding.  
  
  "No, I'm not certain," the man hedged. "But I think so.  I couldn't get
  him to talk to me.  It looked like him, but I haven't seen him in two
  years."
  
  "Then how did you know?"
  
  "I was interviewing some of the miners about the cave in – for the
  article - and I heard someone playing guitar, playing Bach in a coal
  camp.  I followed my ears, and there he was.  Just sitting beside the
  fire, playing ‘Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring.' It looked like Sam to me. "
  
  That was good enough for Mulder.
  
  Frohike stood beside him, hands on his hips and jaw clenched tensely. 
  He'd been nodding along as the man talked, hanging on every word.
  
  "You could telegraph-" Frohike started, but Mulder cut him off.
  
  "No, I can't.  I need to go.  Take Emily." He thrust the sleeping child
  into Frohike's arms. "I need to go myself."
  
  "What's happening?" Byers asked, climbing down.
  
  "Can you drive my mother home?  And keep an eye on her and Dana for a
  week?"
  
  "Of course.  Where are you going?"
  
  "Pennsylvania." 
  
  "He thinks he's found Sam," he heard Frohike explain as Mulder strode
  back into the house, forgetting to close the front door behind him in
  his haste.
  
  "Oh, God," Byers responded sadly. "Again?"
  
  Mulder's feet were already on the steps, pounding upstairs as his mind
  raced even faster.  Ride to the station, train to Pittsburgh, then ride
  north.  And start looking.  
  
  "Wouldn't you go if it was your son?"
  
  "Yes, I suppose I would," Byers responded.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  In his haste, he hadn't stopped to think up a good excuse to tell Dana. 
  He grabbed his pistol out of the nightstand, shoved a change of clothes
  into his old knapsack, and was saddling his horse when she appeared
  beside him in the stable.
  
  "Please do not do this," she said slowly.
  
  "I'll be in Pennsylvania.  On business," he lied, tightening the girth
  so quickly the horse jumped. "John Byers will see to anything you need. 
  I should be home in a week or so."
  
  "Please do not lie and please do not do this.  To yourself.  Again."
  
  He ignored her and reached for reins, but she stopped him, grabbing his
  sleeve. 
  
  "It is not him.  If it were Samuel, why would he not have come home?  If
  he were alive and well, why would he be working in some coal mine in
  Pennsylvania? This reporter who thinks he saw him – have you ever seen
  men coming out of a coal mine?  They are covered in coal dust.  You
  cannot tell one from another.  And they are all boys because they do not
  live long enough to become men.  Please stop and think."
  
  "That reporter's known Samuel since Sam was six.  If he thinks he saw
  him…  It was.  It is Sam.  He's out there, Dana.  He's alive."
  
  Dana folded her arms. "Go tell your mother."
  
  Mulder hesitated, caught off-guard.
  
  "She is inside," Dana continued. "Mr. Byers has not yet left.  If you
  are so sure it is Samuel, go inside and tell your mother you are
  bringing her grandson home.  Then tell Poppy you have found her Sam. 
  She is upstairs with Sadie and Emily.  Go tell her you have found the
  child she nursed and loved as her own.  Tell Poppy he is alive and will
  be in her arms by the end of the week."
  
  "I-I couldn't do that to them.  What if I'm wrong?"
  
  "But you will do it to yourself.  Over and over and over again," she
  said angrily. "Listen to yourself.  Even if you saw him alive in
  Atlanta, it has still been almost two years without any word.  Let him
  go and stop this before you make yourself crazy!"
  
  "It wouldn't matter if it had been two or twenty years.  He's still my
  son."
  
  "And this is not?" she asked, putting her hand on her abdomen.
  
  "I owe it to my family.  I lost him.  Now it's my job to find him."
  
  "Emily and I are not your family?"
  
  "Of course you are," he answered, shutting his mind and not really
  listening. "I will be home soon.  Take care of yourself."
  
  "Mr. Mulder- Mulder, stop!  Please.  Please do not do this.  You
  promised me!  No more wild goose chases."
  
  "But this time it's him," he said earnestly, putting his boot in the
  stirrup and swinging into the saddle.
  
  "It is always him!" she yelled after him as he rode away.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  End - Paracelsus VII