Begin: Paracelsus XI
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  Melissa,
  
  Have I ever told you of Paracelsus?  Thanks to Father, he's another of
  those scientist-philosophers about whom I know more than is really
  necessary.  Settle in, close your eyes, and I will lull you to sleep
  with one of my boring stories.
  
  Philippus Aureolus Theophrastus Bombastus Von Hohenheim was born
  November 11, 1493 in Einsiedeln, Switzerland.  Paracelsus, to his
  contemporaries - so called because he was believed to be on par with the
  great Roman physician Celsus.  He was born the year after Columbus
  discovered the New World and Leonardo Di Vinci drew his flying machine;
  he died while Henry VIII was on his fifth wife and the first white men
  were sailing the Mississippi.  He attended the finest universities in
  Europe, and yet discussed medicine and philosophy with gypsies and
  village wise women.  He was the most respected and most scandalous
  scientist of his day -- a great Renaissance naturalist, a chemist, a
  doctor and a thinker who turned society on its ear merely by telling
  people the truth.  In that, I have always felt a kinship to him.
  
  During his lifetime men still believed they could turn lead into gold
  and yet had begun to understand illness was not always sorcery or a
  punishment from God.  The alchemy of the Dark Ages was fading as modern
  scientific enlightenment took hold.  It was a time of awakening, except
  for the Inquisition and the remnants of the Black Plague. The world was
  beginning to open its eyes to facts but still clinging to its threadbare
  mysticism.
  
  Like Paracelsus, I am caught between two worlds: the old and the new. 
  From my old world, I have my beautiful Sam, who dwells in the mists of
  Camelot and plays his lute for the high king.  And from the new world, I
  have my Dana: my rational scientist, my friend, and my redeemer.  They
  are both parts of me – I feel each of them in my bones - but they are
  opposing elements, and I am not an alchemist.  I am not Paracelsus; I
  cannot have both, and yet I cannot bear to choose.
  
  In his poem, Mr. Robert Browning wrote of Paracelsus wondering if he had
  spent a life the sages' way, and now treaded once more familiar paths. 
  Perhaps he – or I - perished ages ago, and in the moment of death a
  prayer for one more chance went up so earnest that dim memories of that
  life remain, emerging now, when once more it seems the goal is in sight.
  
  One more chance, Melly – but for what purpose?  
  
  Forgoing sleep myself, I stand guard over Dana as she tries to rest,
  uncomfortable and uneasy as the birth of our first son approaches.  And
  I listen to my other son roaming the house in the darkness, always alone
  and searching for something I cannot give him.
  
  Paracelsus believed in the prima material – a world soul - a shared
  simplicity deep within the heart of every man, waiting to be tapped. 
  The truth is within us, waiting to be discovered.  Looking inside myself
  tonight, it is a simple truth: I know Dana.  I have known her for eons,
  but perhaps in this lifetime we were not meant to be together.  After
  Sarah died, perhaps my passage through this life was for others – for
  you, for Samuel, for those I will never meet because I chose another
  path two summers ago in the Georgia Low County.  Or perhaps I made a
  mistake by not following Sarah into death that day near your home in
  Tennessee, and now my error has no end.
  
  Man is not body, Paracelsus wrote. The heart, the spirit is man. Perhaps
  this is only one of many worlds, Melly, each with the same cast of
  souls, but with the script unwritten.  Perhaps, just like Paracelsus, I
  have followed this path before, each time stumbling along a different
  course, trying to find the right one.  Trying to find the truth inside
  myself at last, before I slip from this world into the next.  I feel the
  urgency in every beat of my heart and in the increasing weariness of my
  soul.  Like Dana and Sam, it is something I know in my bones: my time
  with them grows short, and yet tonight, the answers are as elusive as
  ever.
  
  Mulder
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  Medieval knights had their armor, and Mulder had his grin: a crooked
  smile, a few dry jokes – he could be hemorrhaging inside and still stay
  on his feet.  
  
  As dawn approached on Christmas morning, his family made their way
  downstairs and into the parlor, where gifts were stacked around the
  tree.  The small candles tucked among the branches twinkled, and the oil
  lamps glowed gently along the walls.  Sam had dressed, but Dana was
  still in her nightgown and wrapper, with the sash tied high over her
  belly.  She sat down slowly on the sofa, tucking a cushion behind her
  back.  Emily, still in a flannel nightgown and her cap, leaned against
  Sam as she sucked her thumb sleepily.
  
  Mulder stood beside the tree and watched the idyllic scene, feeling
  further removed from it than one bottle of red wine should have allowed. 
  Dana rested one hand on her stomach and gave him a tired smile; he
  grinned back automatically and hollowly.
  
  There was no good way to wrap a guitar, so he'd left it in the wooden
  shipping crate.  Sam spotted it first thing, had the top off, and was
  digging through the straw within seconds.  Once the packing was cleared
  away, Sam lifted the guitar case out of the crate.  He flipped the
  latches, opened it, and gazed at the polished wood and gleaming frets
  like a man who'd just found love.  
  
  "You found one," he said reverently. "A twelve-string."
  
  "That thing came all the way from Spain," Mulder responded, slurring his
  S's slightly. "So it only plays in Spanish."
  
  Sam eased it out of the case, fitting his hand around the neck and
  caressing the delicate curve of the mahogany body.  Mulder started to
  ask if his son liked it, but that was unnecessary.  Sam stationed
  himself in front of the fireplace with his new mistress and didn't speak
  to anyone for hours.  One of Emily's presents finished its saucer of
  milk, wormed out of the blue ribbon around its neck, and curled on the
  hearth beside him. 
  
  Amid the piles of gifts around the tree, Emily crawled into the empty
  packing crate, wrapped her lips around her thumb, and closed her eyes. 
  Three minutes into Christmas morning and they'd already lost two of the
  participants.  
  
  "Do you want to open yours, Dana?" he asked a little too loudly, the
  alcohol in his blood still causing his nose to tingle pleasantly. "Your
  present. Do you want me to get it?"
  
  Before she could answer, he retrieved a box wrapped in newsprint and
  thrust it under her nose.
  
  "You wrapped this one yourself," she guessed, examining his handiwork
  skeptically.
  
  He nodded proudly.  He was wearing the boots that had come in the box;
  no expense had been spared.  She opened the lid, looking puzzled as she
  pulled out two sheaths of handwritten pages, each bound with twine.
  
  "That's Scientific American," he told her. "And the other's a medical
  journal called The Lancet.  In Gaelic," he added. "One of my new
  typesetters is Irish and translated them.  Do you like it?"
  
  "I do," she answered, but leaned forward, looking at him closely and
  then sniffing.
  
  He looked away, adjusting a candle on the tree.
  
  "Good.  Well…" He cleared his throat, trying to appear cheerful and
  sober at the same time. "We have a baby in a manger, heavenly music, and
  I guess a cat and dog can pass as barnyard animals," Mulder chattered.
  "It's too late for a virgin birth, I suppose?"
  
  She raised her eyebrows.  Emily was asleep and Sam was busy communing
  with Bach, but that still wasn't appropriate in front of the children. 
  It had sounded so funny in his head, though.
  
  "You never came to bed last night.  How much have you had to drink?" she
  asked quietly.
  
  He held up his hand, measuring an inch between his thumb and index
  finger. "Just a little bit."
  
  Except it came out "jus-lil bit," renouncing some T's and conserving his
  vowels.
  
  When he worked up the nerve to look at her, her lips were drawn into a
  thin, angry line, and he hunkered down a little more.  Samuel's new
  guitar accompanied an otherwise long silence between them until he held
  up his hand again, this time widening the distance between his fingers
  to six inches, or about four-fifths of the bottle.
  
  On the opposite corner of the house, the back door opened and closed:
  Poppy leaving, taking Sadie with her.  He couldn't imagine how to begin
  explaining that mess to Dana, especially when he'd told her specifically
  he'd never been with Poppy, and Sadie wasn't his child – that there was
  no question about it.  As much as he wanted to dismiss her far-fetched
  story, there was still a nagging doubt.  And that was enough.  He felt
  dirty, angry, used, but without the energy to yell or hit anything.  He
  was so furious that his insides quivered, but he wasn't sure whom he was
  angry with besides himself.
  
  Then there was Sam. "No, I can't tell you what happened, I just can't
  stand Dana living with us, please don't tell her," Samuel.  His
  enigmatic, fragile Sam versus his enigmatic, self-reliant Dana. Mulder's
  greatest fear from the moment Sam walked out of that mineshaft was that
  he'd have to choose: his wife or his son. They were two separate
  lifetimes overlapping only through him – like oil and water – never
  meant to occupy the same place at the same time.  
  
  "Dana, I'm sorry.  I didn't think everyone would be up so early.  Maybe
  we could go upstairs and sleep a few more hours," he told her, feeling
  his brain filtering out the haziness of the wine and leaving emptiness
  behind. "Then have a nice Christmas."
  
  "You go upstairs and go to sleep," she whispered, speaking softly for
  someone giving a direct order.
   
  Across the room, Sam had stopped playing and was watching them, unhappy
  about all the whispering.  
  
  "Fine," Mulder said, standing unsteadily. "Grace, wanna come with me,
  boy?"
  
  Grace opened his eyes, closed them again, and didn't move from Sam's
  feet.
  
  "Goddamn useless mutt," Mulder muttered under his breath, stalking up
  the stairs.   
  
  If all else failed, cuss the dog.
   
  *~*~*~*
  
  Lacking anywhere else to go, Sarah and Melissa had spent so much time
  with the Mulders that they had a guest room reserved just for them. 
  Although it was a huge house, the two girls preferred to be together,
  with Poppy sleeping at their feet. That morning, Melly was at breakfast,
  but he hadn't given it a second thought when Sarah wasn't.  Like Dana,
  Sarah was a night owl who'd sleep as late as the maids would let her. 
  
  "Female complaints," his mother had said when he asked where Sarah was
  at lunch.  He hadn't known what "female complaints" were and he wasn't
  about to ask.
  
  He ate, finished his lessons, then, tired of Melissa and her shy,
  schoolgirl crush, gone riding.  When he returned, his mother sent him to
  get the doctor and his father, and try to find Jack Kavanaugh.  He'd
  found Bill Mulder and the doctor immediately, but spent several hours
  fruitlessly searching for Sarah and Melissa's father before he'd given
  up and returned home.  Kavanaugh was probably in a brothel, and Mulder
  wasn't allowed to go in those.
  
  His parents' house was silent, and the maids watched him out of the
  corners of their eyes as he passed, still in his riding boots and
  trousers from that afternoon.
  
  "Who's sick?  Or hurt?  Is someone hurt?" he asked as his mother passed,
  carrying a basket of bloody sheets and towels down the stairs.  He
  started to carry them for her, but she took the basket back, telling him
  to go to his bedroom and stay there until his father came to speak to
  him.
  
  "All- all right," Mulder answered uncertainly.
  
  He sat on his bed – the same one he and Melly would share on their
  wedding night a year later – and waited, dread beginning to build like a
  tidal wave inside him.  His parent's room was next to his, and he could
  hear their muffled voices arguing, which only increased his nauseous
  trepidation.
  
  Eventually, his bedroom door opened, and his father entered, bolstered
  by a few snifters of brandy. Mulder stood, but his father paced
  uneasily, refusing to look at him.
  
  "Sarah's ill," his father began, which Mulder had already appreciated.
  "The bleeding probably started during the night, and she must have
  thought it was just the curse."
  
  Mulder wanted to ask what this curse was, but he hadn't.
  
  "The doctor says there's nothing he can do.  She has a fever.  She's
  unconscious, but if you want to sit with her, you can."
  
  "Father-"
  
  "Don't you dare speak to me, Fox," his father responded icily. "She's a
  nice girl.  I don't know what you could have been thinking.  I raised
  you better than this."
  
  "I don't understand," he'd pleaded in a five instead of a fifteen year-
  old's voice.
  
  "She's miscarried.  Either that or she's gone to a midwife and gotten
  rid of the baby.  Regardless, she's dying," he answered, then turned and
  left. 
  
  Time slowed, his skin tingled, and all the air left the room.  The young
  still believed they could forestall tragedy by pretending it didn't
  exist, and he tried.  It was about sixty feet from his bedroom to
  Sarah's, and he managed to believe for the entire sixty feet that he
  would open the door and she would be fine.  
  
  Melly was huddled on an upholstered bench in the hall, looking small. 
  That was what Melly did in crises: huddle and look small.
  
  The fresh sheets were white, but the wet, coppery scent of blood was
  still heavy, collecting in his throat and choking him.  Sarah was ashen,
  and a sheen of perspiration covered her forehead.  Her lips moved
  wordlessly, and her eyes were open, but unseeing.  Occasionally, her
  face contorted in pain and she writhed in the bed, then drifted away
  again. 
  
  "Sarah?" he'd said hoarsely, and she hadn't responded.
   
  As he stood beside the bed, his father entered, bringing a chair and
  reminding him to sit.  Mulder did, reaching for her hand, which felt
  like it was on fire.  He clutched it desperately, still not able to
  comprehend what was happening.  He had a pretty good idea where babies
  came from – in the general sense – and he and Sarah hadn't done anything
  that would cause that.
  
  The drapes were drawn, so a candle flickering on the night stand was the
  only light in the claustrophobic darkness.  He told her it was all
  right: that she'd just caught a chill and she'd feel better soon.  He
  told her they'd get married someday, build a big house in Chattanooga,
  and have a dozen children.  He promised, if she'd just get better, she
  could spend her life bossing him around to her heart's content.  As the
  night wore on, he promised he'd take care of Melissa – keep her safe. 
  He promised whoever did this to her wouldn't go unpunished.
  
  She'd never regained consciousness, and been gone by morning, four
  months shy of her sixteenth birthday.
  
  *~*~*~*  
  
  He knew he was awake, but he couldn't move until he saw the hem of
  Dana's dress in front of him.  Then he looked up at her, tears streaming
  down his face, but safe in his hiding place between the dresser and the
  bed. It was one of Melly's favorite places to huddle, and it was quite
  nice.  He'd never tried it before.
  
  "What are you doing down there?" Dana asked, puzzled.  
  
  He sniffed and answered, "Hide and seek?"
  
  "I win.  Did you have a bad dream?"
  
  He nodded, catching his breath.  His chest felt tight and he could still
  taste the bloody traces of death in his throat. "Yes." 
  
  "About Melissa or your mother?"
  
  "Sarah."
  
  "Tell me about your dream."
  
  He shook his head. "You wouldn't understand."
  
  "That is a coward's excuse: saying no one can understand your pain.  You
  have not cornered the market on pain, Mr. Mulder, so tell me about your
  dream."
  
  "Are you calling me a coward?" he asked crossly, looking for something
  to argue about. "The Queen of Fine is accusing me of cowardice because I
  don't want to talk about it?" 
  
  "That is a good point," she responded thoughtfully. "And when I am drunk
  in front of our children on Christmas morning and then wake from a
  nightmare crouched beside our dresser, I will talk about it."
  
  He stared at her, bleary-eyed and head pounding. "What ever happened to
  ‘biddable'?  Didn't you once promise you could be more biddable?  Where
  is your docile femininity?"
  
  "I lost it in the war.  Tell me about your dream."  
  
  He got to his feet, watching her warily.  Dana's belly kept expanding,
  but the rest of her didn't, and she had to lean back a little to keep
  her balance.    
  
  "Have you seen someone die?" he asked hesitantly.
  
  "Yes."
  
  That was a stupid question. Fifty was old, and infant mortality was so
  high that parents were advised not to get too attached to their children
  until they'd passed their first birthday.  There was measles, mumps,
  smallpox, typhoid, cholera… Females who lived long enough to marry
  averaged half a dozen pregnancies and usually died in childbirth, often
  along with their last child.
  
  "No, I mean have you been alone and seen someone you care for die? 
  Slowly, painfully?"
  
  "Yes, I have."
  
  "Your sister.  I forgot.  Yes, of course you have."  He shook his head
  again, then turned away and rinsed his face in the washbasin.  
  
  "My parents would not let me near my sister for fear I would fall ill as
  well.  I watched a man die from a gunshot wound to the abdomen, so
  please do not tell me I cannot understand what it is like to watch a
  lover die."
  
  He stopped mid-splash and turned, water dripping on his shirt.  People
  often used "lover" to mean "suitor," but something in her voice
  indicated that wasn't the case in this instance.
  
  "In Ireland, after the famine, the English landlords realized land was
  more profitable for farming than grazing, so they wanted to evict our
  entire village, though we had paid the rents.  When we would not leave,
  soldiers came and shot every man they could find, then burned our homes. 
  My father and brothers were at sea, but he was not. That week, he did
  not go with the ship.  He stayed with me.  It took three days for him to
  die, though he knew he would from the moment he was shot. He wanted me
  to leave, but I would not."
  
  Mulder remembered to dry his face with a towel, then blinked and
  mumbled, "Oh."
    
  "I should not have told you.  America is different, more formal.  People
  here do not understand." 
  
  "No," he said quickly, tossing the towel aside and guiding her to the
  sofa. "Please tell me.  I want to know."
  
  He wanted to know only slightly less than he wanted to breathe.  
  
  "He was a friend of my father's.  A doctor.  And a scientist.  He would
  let me follow him around his laboratory and help with his experiments. 
  My sister was the beauty, so I thought he was just tolerating me.  I had
  no idea he loved me, but when I turned sixteen, he asked if he could
  kiss me.  And I said yes.  And a few weeks later, he asked if I would
  stay with him that night… And I said yes."
  
  "And?" he asked.  
  
  "And it was nice," she answered softly, looking far away and into a life
  he hadn't shared. "We were waiting until there was a priest so we could
  marry in the church – and we were hoping for a baby, but it did not
  happen."
  
  "How long had you been with him before…"
  
  "About two months."
   
  "What was his name?"
  
  "Oisin."
  
  "Ush-een," he echoed softly.  
  
  "I should not have told you," she repeated, looking embarrassed. "You
  knew I had been married before.  I did not think it mattered."
  
  He didn't respond, but only because he couldn't think of anything to
  say.  The gentleman in him should have been scandalized, but he wasn't. 
  There wasn't much scandal in two people loving each other. If anything,
  he was fascinated by the glimpse of her past.  There were so few of
  them.  
  
  "He mattered to you," he said eventually.
  
  "He did." She paused for several seconds, and then added, "I shot the
  soldier who shot Oisin.  I found him in the forest.  I lured him into
  the forest, rather.  I was aiming for his belly, but I hit him in the
  throat, so he died quickly.  I had never fired a gun, but Oisin had
  loaded it before he died. All I had to do was aim and pull the trigger."
  
  He blinked again.  Jesus Christ, sometimes he felt hopelessly outmatched
  by this woman.
  
  "For a long time, I wished I had died with him. I thought I would never
  feel anything except the emptiness and ache of losing him.  I was so
  young, and so alone, and I thought my life was over.  But it was not,"
  she added softly.
  
  "No," he agreed, again unsure what else to say.
  
  She started to get up, which was an awkward maneuver, so he hurried to
  help. As she straightened her dress, he studied her, trying to find a
  sixteen year-old village girl underneath her calm, dignified exterior. 
  He tried to envision her as a studious teenager, all blue eyes, auburn
  hair, and questions, but couldn't quite do it.  But then, Dana probably
  wouldn't recognize the lanky, awkward fifteen year-old who'd stood
  beside Sarah's grave for an hour, staring at it until his father finally
  persuaded him to leave.
   
  On impulse, he kissed her, leaning over her belly.  Her mouth opened and
  arms went around his neck, fingers running through his hair.  He closed
  his eyes, letting everything else fade away for a few seconds except
  her.    
  
  "Why did you do that?" she asked as he stepped back.
  
  He shrugged, gave her that half-grin, and escorted her downstairs. 
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  He had a plan that would fix everything.  
  
  It just changed every two minutes.
  
  The easiest choice was the obvious: he and Sam would stay in Boston, and
  Dana would stay in DC until she and the baby were able to travel.  That
  was assuming Sam calmed down, but Mulder wasn't sure he would.  Rather
  than sounding like an angry whim, Sam's pleas had a frighteningly
  dispassionate quality, as though his father leaving Dana was one
  solution, but Sam putting a gun to his own head was equally acceptable.
  
  Or it could be a permanent arrangement with Mulder living with Dana when
  Congress was in session and with Sam the rest of the year.  In that
  scenario, it worried him that Sam would be alone in Boston for months at
  a time, and that he'd been very specific: he wanted his father to
  divorce Dana, not just live apart from her.
  
  Or there were extreme solutions like boarding school, but Sam hadn't
  done well in a local school.  He'd returned after his first day holding
  a handkerchief to his bloody nose and crying because the other boys had
  called him a half-breed.  That had been Sam's last day at school and the
  beginning of the tutors.  As interested as he was in the music
  conservatory in London, that probably wouldn't last, either.
  
  Or he could legally separate from Dana and see her and the younger
  children without telling Sam, which was begging for disaster.  Even if
  he'd wanted to divorce her, he had no grounds.  And to answer Sam's
  question, no, he couldn't keep Emily, and Dana wouldn't let him.  She
  still had no idea Waterston was a bigamist, but if she wanted to argue
  Emily wasn't Mulder's, then Emily was a bastard.  And all the beauty and
  money in the world couldn't remove the stigma of a child being
  illegitimate.
  
  He not only had to choose between his wife and son, he had to choose
  between his son and daughter.
  
  He startled back to reality as Emily crawled on his lap and offered him
  her slice of apple.  He bit off a tiny, fuzzy piece, then kissed the tip
  of her nose as he chewed, thanking her.  Dana was on the sofa, but
  Mulder, Sam, and Emily were on the floor beside the Christmas tree,
  opening the rest of the gifts. 
  
  "Do you like it?" Mulder heard Sam ask, and saw Dana examining a wooden
  music box.  When she opened the lid, it played the opening notes of a
  symphony Sam had performed a few months ago.
  
  "It is beautiful.  Thank you, Samuel," she responded. "Which one is
  this?"
  
  "Number 31. Mozart was twenty-two when it premiered," Sam answered
  politely, matching the melody on his guitar strings. "He wrote to his
  father after the concert: about the musicians, the audience, but he
  never mentioned his mother, who was with him, died that day."
  
  "Oh," Dana responded, seeming unsure if that was just an explanation or
  a veiled message.  Probably just an explanation; Sam's creativity didn't
  extend to verbal sparring.  
  
  "You got Dana a present, but not me?" Mulder asked. 
  
  Still holding his guitar with one hand, Sam produced a slim package
  wrapped in silver paper and neatly tied with white ribbon.
  
  "Really?" Mulder asked.  He'd been joking.  He still thought of Sam as
  eleven: old enough to expect presents, but too young to think to give
  them. "What is it?"
  
  Sam shrugged, telling him to open it.  He peeled the paper away,
  revealing a framed sketch of Dana.  Not a figure drawing like Sam
  usually did, but just her heart-shaped face: all eyes and hair and lips. 
  Sam had captured her looking up, her mouth slightly open and her head
  tilted to the side as though he'd just told her a whopping lie and she
  hadn't believed a word of it.  He could almost hear the picture exhaling
  and saying, "Mr. Mulder, I do not think…"
  
  "Awe, Sammy, it's great." He turned the frame around and tilted it for
  Dana to see. "Thank you."
  
  He exhaled, letting a small hope begin to grow: maybe Sam's tearful
  episode the previous evening was just youthful moodiness gone too far. 
  He and Dana must have had some minor disagreement and Sam had over-
  reacted.  Maybe it would all just blow over.
  
  "Open Father's," Sam said, passing Dana a big box that had been hidden
  behind the tree. "It's a dress."
  
  "A dress?" she echoed skeptically.  The last thing she was interested in
  these days was a new dress. "From where?  The Baltimore Tent & Awning
  Company?"
  
  "Open it," Sam urged. "It cost five hundred dollars."   
  
  "Wait, Sammy, no- Dana-" he tried to intervene.  Sam had helped choose
  the dress and seen it when it arrived from Paris, but he didn't know
  what went with it.
  
  Dana lifted the lid, gasping at the evening gown nestled in the tissue.
  It was deep scarlet, trimmed at the neck, sleeves, and hem with delicate
  lace the color of old gold. The neckline was cut low enough to make men
  choke on their drinks, then tapered to a tiny waist before blossoming
  out again.  She let the box fall away and twenty yards of blood-red silk
  cascaded over her empire-waist mourning dress. 
  
  "Oh my God," she said breathlessly. "This is beautiful.  I have never
  seen anything like it.  Mulder…"
  
  "Yes?" he asked innocently. 
  
  "This is so beautiful, but where am I going to wear it?  I am married
  with three children.  I cannot wear this."
  
  "Look in the bottom of the box."
  
  While girls could wear pastels, married women wore sedate colors: dark
  blue, brown, gray, violet.  Melly had liked pink, but that was Melly. 
  Even in fashionable cities like New Orleans and New York, the only lady
  who'd wear scarlet was no lady.  England was almost as conservative, but
  France wasn't.
  
  "The Paris opera," Mulder translated as Dana stared at the tickets.
  "Faust.  You, me, and Sammy - this time next year.  You'll probably be
  one of the more conservatively dressed women."
  
  She smiled again, then leaned forward.  He leaned back, tilted his face
  upward, and their lips met lightly. "How do you know I will not look
  like this again next year?" she asked quietly.
  
  "You won't," he whispered back.  
  
  Two babies in two years were enough for a long time.  He planned, once
  Harvey was born, for them to learn more about prophylaxis – or something
  – but it looked like they could let his fifteen-year-old son sleep
  between them and avoid contraception all together.
  
  Realizing they'd kissed in front of Sam, Mulder glanced at his son for
  any reaction, good or bad, but the boy was gone.  He must have realized
  what the gift implied: when it was wrapped, his father had planned to be
  with Dana in a year.  The new guitar was leaning against the wall, and
  Sam's footsteps were headed toward the kitchen with Grace's claws
  clicking after him.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  Sam opened the back door and Mulder shoved it closed again, keeping his
  hand against it.
  
  "I wasn't running away," Sam mumbled.
  
  "Explain this to me, Sammy, because I'm a confused.  Yesterday, out of
  the blue, Dana was the wicked stepmother, and then you're giving her
  Christmas presents, and then you can't stand to be in the same room with
  us?"
  
  The shrugging started, and Mulder gritted his teeth in frustration.  
  
  "You seem to forget to hate Dana, then suddenly remember again.  Has
  Poppy said something to you?  Has she put some idea into your head about
  Dana?"
  
  Sam studied the kitchen floor. "No."
  
  That was an unconvincing lie.
  
  "If you want to know, ask me and I'll tell you the truth, but I can't
  fix things I don't know about.  If it's not Poppy, if me being remarried
  really is just too much and it takes Dana and I living apart for a
  while, we will.  You have to give me some time, though.  I thought we
  had an understanding.  As soon as the baby's born and Dana's safe, she
  and I will talk about it and she'll understand-"
  
  "No!"
  
  "No, what?  No, don't talk to her?  Do you expect me to just say I'm
  leaving her, take the baby, and walk out without giving her a reason? 
  You're the reason, Sammy.  You are the only reason.  Do you understand
  that?"
  
  Sam looked up. "You wouldn't take Emmy?"
  
  "No." He debated for three heartbeats, but Sam was even better at
  keeping secrets than Dana. "I met Dana right before Emily came.  I was
  there when she was born, and I love her, and I've been there ever
  since," he explained, "But in court, the judge would see her as Dana's
  daughter, not mine."
  
  "Oh."
  
  "You have to keep that to yourself, Sammy.  It's important.  We never
  lied to anyone, but people just assumed… Once they did, and once I found
  out a few things, it's better for Emmy to just let them keep assuming."
  
  "Oh."
  
  He would give any amount of money for Samuel to do something besides
  shrug and mumble "oh." Even a temper tantrum would be preferable.
  
  "Sam, do you understand what I'm telling you?  If you want Emmy with us,
  Dana has to stay too.  Think about all that's happened - Grandmother
  dying, a baby coming, you being home again - then think about whether
  Dana's really the problem."
  
  No response.
  
  "Is it the baby?  Is that what scares you?  Do you look at Dana and see
  your mother and worry?  I'm scared to death too, but upsetting Dana will
  only make it worse."
  
  No response.
  
  "She likes you.  She tries to be your friend.  Do you realize how much
  this will hurt her?  Did you hear her say she's married with three
  children?  Count them: Emily, Harvey, and you.  She cares about you, and
  I want us to be a family."
  
  He wanted to shake Sam and shout that Dana cared for him a hundred times
  more than his mother ever had.  Dana always found time to listen to a
  song or look at a sketch, she fixed his eggs the way he liked them, and
  so far, she hadn't tried to kill him.
  
  Mulder paused, stunned that such a traitorous thought had run through
  his brain.  There must be a chink in his armor.
  
  "I do like her," Sam mumbled. 
  
  "Then what is it," Mulder exploded. "What?  Why are you doing this?"
  
  Mulder got a response.  Sam slid down the wall, wrapped his arms around
  his knees, dropped his head, and started to sob.
   
  "Oh, Sammy… God, I'm sorry." Mulder squatted beside him, trying to get
  him to look up. "Please talk to me.  Please."
  
  Grace wagged encouragingly as Dana waddled in and appraised the
  situation unhappily.  In a maneuver that would have made a contortionist
  proud, she lowered herself to the floor so she was sitting in front of
  the kitchen table and a few feet from Sam.
  
  "I am at your mercy now," she said softly. "If you or your father do not
  help me up, I am down here for good."
  
  That got a nod from Sam, but not a laugh.  She motioned for Mulder, who
  was looming over his son, to move away.
  
  "Take a few deep breaths, Samuel.  Calm down.  No one is angry with you.
  You know it would not be a holiday without your father making a scene."
  
  She was teasing, but Mulder furrowed his brow, silently taking objection
  to that.  Again, she gestured for him to be quiet.
  
  Sam's head moved an inch, and between sobs he choked, "Just. Gonna. 
  Take. Grace. Out. He had - go out."
  
  "All right," she said easily, as Mulder's stomach tightened. "Your
  father can take him out.  Go ahead, Mr. Mulder.  Right now."
  
  "The hell I will," he mouthed at her, and she clenched her teeth and
  pointed toward the door.  
  
  Five minutes later, Mulder was slouching around the backyard; face still
  hot, nose cold, holding the end of a leash while Grace searched for the
  perfect place to lift his leg.
   
  *~*~*~*
  
  It was barely dark, but he and Dana went to bed because they'd run out
  of anything else to do - except speak to each other, of course.  When
  they first married, they did that all the time, but now Mulder was on
  the sofa, listening to Dana toss and turn in the bed.  He kept flipping
  the page of his book, then realizing he hadn't read it and having to go
  back and try again.
  
  "Are you all right?" he asked, giving up on the author's ability to hold
  his interest and sitting up. "Is Harvey all right?"
  
  "We are just restless.  I cannot get comfortable."
  
  He put his book aside and stole to the bed like he wasn't supposed to be
  there, then sat on the mattress beside her, fiddling with the blankets
  and trying to think of something neutral to say. The doctors warned not
  to upset women in the family way.  There were accounts of pregnant
  ladies being frightened by monkeys or horses and then having a deformed
  child that resembled that animal.  Or of them having a miscarriage or
  going into labor because they saw or heard something shocking.  Wealthy
  women often spent their entire pregnancy in bed, isolated from the
  world, just to be careful.
  
  Dana had cooked three meals, washed dishes, swept the floor, soothed
  Sam, ignored Mulder's remorseful brooding, and rescued Emily's new
  kitten when Emmy put it in the dumbwaiter for safekeeping.  Give her
  another few hours and she could reform the corrupt Freemen's Bureau,
  persuade Napoleon III to withdraw his troops from Mexico, and edit
  Tolstoy for brevity.
  
  Sometimes it would be easier if she was a little less resilient.  He
  knew how to deal with fragile women, but he didn't have much experience
  with one who was his equal.
  
  Damn it, there was another chink.
   
  "What about Howard?" he asked, putting his hand on her belly.  A tiny
  foot pressed back, disliking the disturbance. "That's a good, Biblical
  name."
  
  "Biblical?" Dana asked, rearranging the pillows in an effort to get
  comfortable.
  
  "God's name: ‘Our father, who art in Heaven, Howard be thy name.'
  Howard."
  
  He grinned, waiting for her to laugh.  Maybe it wasn't funny, or the pun
  didn't translate well, or she was exhausted, but she didn't.
  
  "What if your Howard or Harvey is a girl?"
  
  "Then Drucilla," he drawled, still trying to get her to smile. "Drucilla
  Eugenia Annabelle Sue."
  
  "Never mind.  I will have a boy."
  
  "If he or she would just make an appearance in the next few days, he can
  be named anything you want."
  
  She nodded in agreement, closing her eyes and letting him gently press
  on her abdomen, feeling.  By the doctor's estimate this evening, she was
  already a week overdue.  Given the size of the baby in relation to the
  size of Dana, the doctor had offered to break her water, which he said
  would hurry the baby along and sounded like a brilliant idea to Mulder. 
  But when Dana mentioned that if the baby refused to hurry along she
  would die, it had stopped sounding so brilliant.  So they just waited:
  nervously on his part, miserably on Dana's.
  
  "Come on out, little guy," he leaned down and told the belly. "It's a
  great big world out here." 
  
  He waited for a few seconds, but the belly stayed firmly in place.  
  
  Mulder hesitated, then said calmly, "Dana, I'm going to take Sam to
  Boston with me.  He and I talked last night. He's not doing well here,
  and I think a change of scenery might be good for him.  And it will give
  you one less thing to keep up with."
  
  "All right.  He likes spending time with you."
  
  "It doesn't show."   
  
  "He does."
  
  That went well, so he flopped down, jarring the bed and the belly, and
  stared at the ceiling.  He should get Sam to paint a mural.
  
  "Poppy won't be spending the night anymore.  We talked this morning," he
  informed her, choosing his words carefully so they were at least half-
  truths. "I'll arrange for Emily's nursemaid to be here, and a wet nurse
  for the baby.  Do you know a midwife who can stay with you for a few
  weeks?"
  
  He was trying to sneak that in as she fell asleep: a wet nurse and a
  live-in midwife, namely her mother, but Dana asked, "Is Poppy going with
  you?"
  
  "I don't know.  I hadn't considered it."
  
  "Would Sadie's father mind?"
  
  "Poppy and Alex had a falling out," he answered, glad he wasn't looking
  Dana in the face. "I'll see what Sam wants.  I'm not pleased with Poppy
  right now, but if he wants her, I suppose she could go to Boston.
  Mother's Georgetown housekeeper could come here."
  
  "Only Boston?  Why not put her on a train to Purgatory?" she mumbled.
  
  "Hell's south; Boston's north.  She'd notice," he answered. "Do you
  really despise her that much?"
  
  "No, I adore any woman who wishes me dead and tells the whole city my
  husband is in love with her.
  
  He knew that was sarcasm, so he planned to chuckle, but it came out
  sounding like someone had their hand around his testicles and was
  squeezing progressively tighter.
  
  Dana opened her eyes, checking on him.
  
  "Nothing," he said quickly. "Can I get you anything?  A drink of water? 
  Another blanket?  Rub your back?  Anything?  You just look so
  uncomfortable…"
  
  "Can you get this baby to come any sooner?"
  
  "I'll see what I can do." Mulder scooted down so he was eye level with
  the belly, addressing the baby again. "Boo," he said loudly.
  
  Dana's abdomen jiggled as she laughed. "I do not think that is going to
  work."
  
  "Boo, damn it!"
   
  *~*~*~*
  
  The next day, he didn't so much go to work as he did make a dozen trips
  between work and home. He averaged twenty minutes at the paper before he
  contrived some reason to be home immediately.  Then he'd spend ten
  minutes circling the building, looking for someone to annoy, before his
  employees complained to Byers or Frohike.  They'd suggest Mulder check
  on Dana, diplomatically making it sound like their idea.
  
  By mid-afternoon, even his eight year-old newsboys were begging him to
  just go home.  And stay there.  
  
  "Again?  Did you lose another button?" Dana asked, looking up to see him
  lurking in the doorway.  Rather than sit, she was leaning over to write,
  recording how much cash she was giving the cook to go to the store. 
  Dana rattled off a shopping list, a few instructions, then handed over
  the money.  
  
  "No," Mulder responded.
  
  "Are you still hungry?" she asked.  
  
  Dana straightened, massaging her back.  A maid appeared with one of
  Mulder's winter coats, and Dana sent her upstairs again, telling her it
  was the wrong one.
  
  "No," he repeated.  He'd had two breakfasts, a lunch, and a few snacks,
  most of which were surreptitious fed to Grace underneath the table.
  
  "Did you forget another handkerchief?" 
  
  "No."
  
  A crew of men was packing crates to go to Boston, and asked if she was
  ready for them in the library.  Dana told them to go ahead, then made
  her way through the front hall with Mulder at her heels.  
  
  The maid returned with Mulder's coat, and Dana instructed her to take it
  and one of Sam's to the tailor and have them double-lined against the
  Boston winter.  The cook had a question, Emily's nursemaid came to
  report Emily wouldn't take a nap, and Sam wandered in with his new
  guitar.  They encircled her, all wanting Dana's attention at once.
   
  "Where is Poppy?" Mulder demanded, trying to be heard amid the chaos.
  "Why isn't she doing this?"
  
  "Poppy seems to be taking the day off," she answered, then in rapid
  succession ordered, "Get ten pounds, if they have it.  Bring Emily
  downstairs and I will rock her.  Samuel, just a minute.  I know I keep
  saying that, but…" She turned to Mulder and guessed, "Do you have
  another splinter?  Find a new thread for me to trim?  Forget your
  umbrella again?"
  
  Mulder looked sheepish.  There was six inches of snow already and no
  sign of it letting up.  Forgetting his umbrella hadn't been one of his
  more believable excuses for coming home.
  
  "What do you mean ‘Poppy's taking the day off?' You mean she hasn't been
  here all day?  Why didn't you say something?  You're supposed to be
  resting."
  
  She paused, pushing her fists into the small of her back and looking at
  him irritably.  In the library behind her, hammers pounded as the
  packing crates were sealed, then carried to the wagons outside.  The
  back door banged twice: once as the coats left for the tailor and once
  as the cook left to buy ten pounds of something – dynamite for all
  Mulder knew.  Wednesday was cleaning day, so anyone who wasn't packing
  or running errands was polishing, scrubbing, and dusting.  Emily
  whimpered tiredly as her nursemaid brought her downstairs, and Sam
  strummed his guitar idly and waited his turn.  Grace guarded Sam, eyeing
  the movers suspiciously, and Emily's new kitten was perched on the
  banister, loudly complaining to be fed. 
  
  Dana exhaled and tilted her head from side to side, stretching her neck
  muscles. "What makes you think I am not resting?"
  
  "Why isn't Poppy here?"
  
  Dana tilted her palms upward, indicating she didn't know, and turned
  back to the library.  Grace, the kitten, Sam, Emily's nursemaid, Emily,
  and Mulder followed. "She did not come today.  I assumed you had told
  her it was all right."
  
  "Why would I tell her that?" They had packers packing, movers moving,
  ten-thousand square feet of house to be cleaned, two children, and Dana
  looked like she was smuggling a watermelon under the front of her dress. 
  The "awe, look how big she's getting" stage had passed a month ago and
  now she just looked ponderously uncomfortable.
  
  "Dana-" Sam tried again, guitar poised.
  
  "I know.  I will.  I want to hear it.  Just a-" she started to answer,
  turning and trying to step over Grace as she did.  Mulder saw her lose
  her balance, but was too far away to catch her.  He started toward her,
  his hand outstretched, then winced as Dana landed hard on her bottom
  amid the packing crates.
  
  "Jesus, Dana," Mulder gasped, as everyone who wasn't already in the
  library came running. "Are you all right?"
  
  Grace whimpered and hid under Mulder's desk, peeking out remorsefully.
  
  After a second, Dana exhaled, looking at the faces above her like she
  briefly wished she had a bullet for each and every one.  She pushed up
  to sitting, supporting her weight on her hands, and ordered the maids
  and packers to find someplace else to be.  They wisely retreated to the
  other side of the room to gawk and mutter among themselves.
  
  Mulder knelt on the rug and started to pick her up, saying he was taking
  her to bed, but Dana protested indignantly until he set her on her feet. 
  She adjusted her dress and rubbed her hip as he hovered, not sure how to
  help. "Go get the doctor," he ordered Sam, who nodded and started to
  leave.
  
  "I am fine," Dana said angrily. "I need an extra set of hands, not a
  doctor.  And Mr. Mulder – I will give you whatever you want if you will
  please just go back to work.  And stay there." 
  
  "You should have a doctor," Mulder argued.
  
  "He has been here twice today," she hissed in his ear. "That doctor has
  seen more of me than you have."
  
  "Will you at least lie down?  I can take care of this." Dana looked like
  she might relent, so Mulder told Sam, "Take a buggy, find Grandmother's
  housekeeper, and bring her back.  I have no idea where Poppy is, but if
  you see her, tell her I want her here now.  Then get the doctor.  And if
  you're not back in an hour, I'm coming after you," he added. "You: pack
  something," he ordered the crowd congregated in one corner. "And you:
  you go clean something.  There, Dana, see?  All taken care of."
  
  "I will bask in the leisure," she responded sarcastically.   
  
  "Bask in bed.  I'll help you upstairs."
  
  "Why?  I cannot sleep."
  
  "Then at least sit down."
  
  Emily went from whimpering to full-blown squalling, too tired to know
  what she wanted, but certain she wasn't getting it.  The hammers started
  pounding again, evening an old score against all ten-penny nails.  Sam
  returned to say his favorite coat was missing.  And the kitten still
  wanted fed.
  
  "I am taking a bath," Dana announced. "A long, hot bath."
  
  "A bath?" Mulder echoed, taking Emily in a futile attempt to comfort
  her.  
  
  "A bath," she repeated, smiling as though she could taste it on her
  lips. "Since you are here to take care of everything, Mr. Mulder… I will
  be in the bathtub.  Call me if the roof falls in."
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  Filled to the top, it held eighty-two gallons of water, a fact Poppy
  reminded him of every time someone wanted a bath.  And since Mulder had
  been one of the four men who'd carried it in the house, he remembered it
  weighted almost five hundred pounds and hurt like hell if dropped on a
  toe.  The bathtub had been a birthday present for Melissa, but he could
  no longer recall exactly which birthday, and that bothered him.  Except
  for Sam, a few paintings, and a collection of indistinct photographs,
  memories were all he had left of her.  Forgetting her was failing her
  all over again.
  
  Like Sam, Melissa hadn't been a reader, so it had surprised him when she
  met him at the door with a newspaper. "They're all the rage in
  Philadelphia," she'd said excitedly, showing him the article. "It could
  be a birthday present."
  
  He'd shrugged off his coat, loosened his cravat, and looked over her
  shoulder, scanning the page. "But it's not my birthday, honey.  And what
  would I do with that thing?  Stock it with trout and start my own
  fishing hole?"
  
  Melissa had turned to look at him uncertainly. "No, it's for bathing. 
  See." She pointed. "It's installed."
  
  "I suppose I'm the one who gets to install it?"
  
  She'd blinked those big brown eyes at him.
  
  "You want to bathe with trout?" he'd teased. "It's all the rage to bathe
  with fish?  You could do that in the Washington Canal.  Do Philadelphia
  men like their women to smell like a pond?"
  
  Her forehead had started to crinkle. "It's not for fish, Fox.  It's for
  people.  It's an installed bathtub for people."
  
  He'd kissed her earlobe playfully. "Yes, honey, I know it's a bathtub. 
  It's a huge bathtub.  Are you sure it's what you want?  You could drown
  in that thing."
  
  "Please," she'd pleaded.
  
  "All right," he'd grumbled good-naturedly. "Maybe it's meant to for two
  people.  A two-person tub."
  
  Melissa had looked down, rereading the newsprint. "No, I don't think it
  said anything about two people."
  
  A drop of warm water hit his cheek, startling him. 
  
  "Mr. Mulder?" Dana asked, sounding like she was repeating it for the
  third or fourth time. 
  
  "Sorry," he apologized, helping her pull her dress over her head.  The
  loose chemise followed, then he steadied her as she stepped over the
  side of the bathtub and sank into the steaming water.  She leaned back,
  closing her eyes, and an almost orgasmic sigh of pleasure rumbled from
  deep in her throat.
  
  Mulder pulled a stool beside the bathtub and sat, propping his hands on
  the edge and his chin on his hands.
  
  There were French-milled soaps and salts and fancy oils, but she seemed
  content to soak.  The clear water reached her chest, lapping against her
  swollen breasts and glistening on her shoulders.  Below the surface, her
  belly and legs were distorted, and patterned with orange and yellow as
  the lamplight refracted through the water.
   
  "I can do this part without supervision," she murmured, not opening her
  eyes.
  
  "I'll stay just in case."
  
  "Are you staring at me?" 
  
  "Probably," he admitted.  
  
  Of all the horrible images stored in his mind – of young men in war, and
  innocents in death – the worst was Melissa's slack, gray face as he
  pulled her out of the bloody water.  The bath had kept her body warm,
  and he'd carried her upstairs to their bed, certain she was alive
  despite the lack of a pulse.  If he wrapped her in a blanket and kept
  her warm until Sam returned with the doctor, she'd be fine.
  
  "Do not make jokes about my navel," Dana requested.
  
  "I wouldn't think of it," he heard himself answer automatically.   
  
  When they'd brought the coffin to the house, the undertaker had asked
  him to choose a dress for Melissa to be buried in.  When Mulder just sat
  on the porch, numbly rubbing a scuffed place on his boot, the undertaker
  rephrased the question, asking which dress was her favorite.  Mulder had
  shown him, then said it wouldn't fit.  None of her favorites would fit
  her at seven months pregnant.  If they cut it down the back, the
  undertaker had said, it would fit, and no one would know.  And the long
  sleeves were good – those and gloves would cover the slashes on her
  wrists.  No one would know.     
   
  Mulder trailed his fingertips across the surface, watching the delicate
  ripples they left behind.  Dana raised one hand out of the water,
  cupping her hot palm against his cheek. "I did not think," she said
  softly. "Of Melissa.  I did not mean to upset you."
  
  He shrugged one shoulder, unwilling to answer. 
  
  On the other side of the bathroom door, hammers pounded, plates clinked
  as they were dried and put away, and indistinct voices chattered. 
  Emily, placated with a cup of milk, had settled down for a while, but
  started fussing again.  She patted the door, whimpering.
  
  "Bat," Emily informed Mulder as he let her in.  
  
  "Mommy's taking a bath," he answered, following her back to the tub. 
  Dana dropped her hand over the side, toying with Emily's blonde curls.
  
  "Me bat," she requested, wiggling out of her diaper and pulling at her
  dress. "Mama?  Bat?  Up?"
  
  "Come here, baby girl," Dana responded, raising her arms as Mulder
  lifted the toddler in.  Emily rested her head on her mother's shoulder
  and, buoyed by the water, nestled safely between Dana's left arm and
  body. "Are you sleepy?"
  
  "No ‘teepee," Emily said unconvincingly, her eyelids getting heavy.
  "Dahdah?" she asked. "Dahdah bat?"
  
  Mulder resumed his seat beside the bathtub, leaning on the edge. "No,
  Dahdah's not getting in.  Dahdah's watching his precious girls."
  
  Dana closed her eyes again, stroking Emily's bare back and letting the
  hot water ease her sore muscles.  She looked so peaceful.  It was easy
  to forget the rest of the world was only a dozen feet away.   
  
  He floated a sponge like a boat, making journeys up and down the tub
  until it eventually took on water and sank.  He rolled up his sleeves
  and washed her calves and feet, soaping each wrinkled toe, then kissing
  it once it was clean.  She gave him one arm, keeping the other around
  Emily, who was fast asleep.  In slow, lazy circles, he washed her
  breasts, then her swollen belly, then deep under the water, brushed
  against the auburn curls at the apex of her thighs.
  
  "What if I take Emmy to the nursery, then help you up and take you
  upstairs?  I'd like to get you in bed one way or the other, and I think
  desperate times call for desperate measures."
  
  She half-opened her eyes, as if she thought he might be joking. "I am
  not sure we should…" she said softly, though the idea seemed to appeal
  to her.  A man could talk a woman into almost anything as long as she
  was soaking in a hot bath.
  
  "I didn't say we were going to.  I just want you to relax and rest.  Let
  me use my imagination.  Or hands.  Or mouth," he whispered, and she bit
  her lower lip.  Until Sam returned, that had been a favorite game –
  promising in the morning what they'd do in bed that night.  They hadn't
  done half of it, but he'd spend many pleasant afternoons anticipating. 
  
  He gathered up Emily, wrapping her in a thick towel and holding her
  against his shoulder.  
  
  "Don't start without me," he added, leaning down to kiss her before he
  left, closing the bathroom door after him.
   
  Much to his relief, his mother's housekeeper was in the kitchen,
  stirring a pot and warming a stack of towels and blankets on the open
  oven door.  As she greeted him, she draped a blanket over Emily, who
  sighed happily in her sleep.
  
  "Just do whatever looks like it needs done, Rebekah," he told her,
  tucking the blanket tightly around Emily. "What happened to the movers?"
  he asked, realizing the hammering had stopped.
  
  "I sent them away so Little Miss could take her nap.  You and Mr. Sam
  can manage in Boston if your books and accordion are a few days late. 
  And whoever that yowling ball of fur belongs to, it's fed.  We're having
  mutton for dinner – I just sent a maid to the butcher shop.  Mr. Sam's
  bringing the doctor to check Miss Dana, and if you'll bring her wrapper,
  I'll warm it.  I added wood to the fire in the master bedroom, but we
  can't have her or that baby catching a chill on the way there."
  
  "Bless your heart, ‘Bekah," he responded thankfully.  
  
  If he had to venture a guess at her age, he'd say late fifties, but only
  because he remembered her being an adult when he was small.  Rebekah was
  two generations removed from Ireland, and well distilled into working-
  class Boston society.  She was broad across the cheekbones and hips,
  with a ruddy complexion and large, pendulous breasts.  Her curly hair
  was a shade lighter than Dana's: the color called red on poor women and
  light auburn on the wealthy.  She'd raised her babies, Mulder, the
  Kavanaugh girls, and, until Mulder and Melissa had a home of their own,
  supervised Poppy with Sam.  She knew absolutely everything – good or bad
  - that happened in Washington, never broke a confidence, and kept a
  hickory switch beside the stove that both Mulder and Sam's backsides had
  been acquainted with.  
  
  He was so happy to see her he could have kissed her.
  
  "Poppy asked to speak to you," Rebekah added with distain.
  
  "Where is she?"
  
  "Here," Poppy answered, entering the kitchen carrying a carpetbag and
  leading Sadie. "We're here." 
  
  "Rebekah, give us a minute please," he requested, and, though he could
  feel her disapproval, she moved the pot off the stove and left quietly.
  "I assume you spent the day looking for a flat?  In the future, I'd
  appreciate notice if you're not going to show up for work.  And I don't
  appreciate you leaving Dana high and dry.  Don't let that happen again."
  
  "I come to tell you I'm leaving, Fox," she said. "We're leaving.  Alex
  is going up north, and he asked us to go with him.  I just come to tell
  you."
  
  "You're what?" he said in disbelief. She was minding her manners but
  slurring her words a little, and he wondered if she hadn't been
  drinking. "Yesterday he was your archenemy and you wouldn't let Sadie
  near him.  Now you're running away with him?"
  
  "I'm not running away.  Alex wants us."
  
  "And you don't," hung unsaid in the air.
  
  "Alex can't marry you.  He can't support you.  As far as I know, he has
  no income except whatever Spender's giving him.  Whatever he's promised
  you-"
  
  "He promised Sadie can go to school."
  
  "She can go to school here," Mulder argued.
  
  "To a white school.  A boarding school."
  
  He blinked.  Poppy was an octoroon, one-eighth Negro, with a strong
  influence of Cherokee – light-skinned and dark-eyed with silky black
  hair; despite the resemblance to her half-sisters, she was too exotic
  looking to ever be mistaken for white.  The laws varied, but any person
  one-sixteenth or one thirty-second Negro was considered Negro.  Proper
  society used the one-drop rule: any black ancestor, not matter how far
  removed, and the child was black. To a lesser degree, the rule applied
  any non-European ethnicity, but there was nothing more stigmatizing to a
  child, especially a pretty girl looking to marry well, than an African
  skeleton in the family closet.
  
  "We'd start over.  A new place.  No one would know," she said, and
  Mulder knew her well enough to detect the hint of desperation in her
  voice.  There were stories of girls who succeeded in passing, along with
  stories of what happened to those who were found out by their husbands.
  The lucky ones were merely thrown out on the street to beg or prostitute
  themselves.  The unlucky ones were beaten to death or hanged.
  
  "Alex or no Alex, that's a bad idea, Poppy.  You aren't thinking this
  through.  What will you say?  That you're her maid, not her mother?  You
  expect her to live a lie?  Do you realize what will happen to her when
  someone figures out the truth?  Why would you risk that?"
  
  "She's not gonna be an ignorant maid all her life," Poppy responded. "Or
  some white man's plaything.  I explained what happened with you to Alex
  and he understands."
  
  Mulder leaned against the kitchen table, still holding Emily as she
  slept. "Then explain it to me so I can understand too."   
  
  She bent to fasten Sadie's coat and didn't answer him.  Her fingers
  wouldn't cooperate, and she struggled to get the buttons through the
  holes.  She had been drinking, he decided.  Gin, probably, since he
  hadn't smelled alcohol on her breath.
  
  "I don't know what's gotten into you," he said eventually. "But you're
  playing a dangerous game, Poppy.  I think you're overestimating your
  hand.  And I won't play.  Whatever happened in Louisville, if it even
  happened, had nothing to do with me wanting or loving you.  I thought
  you were Melissa or Sarah, or I was just acting on instinct.  There's no
  way I forced or seduced you, because I was too weak to move.  If it
  happened… You can't imagine how used that makes me feel."
  
  "Oh yes, I can," she responded, looking up and suddenly staring daggers
  through him. 
  
  "It doesn't change my responsibility, though.  Whether Sadie's my
  daughter or Melissa's niece, I'll take care of her.  And you.  All I
  want is the truth."
  
  She didn't even seem to hear him.  She stood up and took Sadie's hand.
  "Goodbye, Fox.  Take care of my Sam.  Take care of yourself."
  
  He moved quickly, placing himself between her and the door.
  
  "You're not taking her.  Not with Alex.  He'll get bored with you or
  find a woman with more to offer, and you and Sadie will end up in the
  gutter."
  
  "What are you going to do?" she countered coolly. "Keep her here?  Have
  her share a nursemaid with Emily?  How would you explain suddenly having
  a bastard nigger daughter to your precious Dana?"
  
  "Don't underestimate me, Poppy.  Don't underestimate Dana.  How do you
  know I haven't already told her?"
  
  She recoiled, then found another unprotected place to strike. "She's not
  yours," she said evenly, her eyes narrowing. "She could be, but she's
  not yours any more than Sam is."
  
  It was a blessing he was holding Emily, because if he'd had his hands
  free, whether she was tipsy or not, he would have hurt her. Instead, he
  demanded, "Did you say that to Sam?  Did you?  Is that what's wrong with
  him?"
  
  "No, of course I didn't tell him," she said, but he couldn't tell if she
  was lying or not, or if he was supposed to think she was lying or not. 
  This woman wasn't the Poppy he knew. It wasn't just the alcohol.  It was
  as if she'd somehow become a different person, but in that moment, that
  didn't make him hate her any less.
  
  "Did you put Melissa up to it?  You had to know what was happening, and
  she would have done whatever you told her to.  Did you?" he demanded. 
  "Did you suspect she was with child and put her up to seducing me?"  
  
  "Of course not, Fox," she responded in the same vaguely condescending
  tone. "She must have just wanted you."
  
  "Get out!" he ordered, moving away so she could open the door.  When she
  didn't leave fast enough for him, he jerked it open, letting the icy
  wind scatter snow over his boots. "Get the hell out." She picked up her
  daughter and satchel, and stepped into the storm, leaving without a
  backward glance.
  
  He remembered to close the door, then realized she'd gotten exactly the
  reaction she'd wanted.  
  
  "Let her go, Fox," Rebekah advised, waddling in and taking Emily from
  him. "You made a mistake, now let it go.  There's nothing about that
  woman that's worth a second thought."
  
  "How much did you hear?"
  
  "More than I intended, and nothing I hadn't heard before.  Were you
  going to bring me Miss Dana's wrapper?"
  
  Dana.  He exhaled.  He'd forgotten about Dana. 
  
  She was still soaking as he entered the bathroom, and turned her head
  toward him. "Did Emily wake up?"
  
  "I'm sorry," he apologized, helping her up, then carefully out of the
  bathtub. "No.  No, she didn't wake up," he said, wrapping the warm
  blanket around her before she had a chance to shiver. "Rebekah's here. 
  Mother's housekeeper: she has Emmy."
  
  "Good," Dana responded softly, looking up at him.  She licked her lips,
  then kissed the underside of his jaw and slowly down his neck to his
  open shirt collar. "And you brought blankets.  Did you ever fix the lock
  on this door?"
  
  "Probably.  I don't remember," he answered, realizing she was just
  picking up where they'd left off - somewhere between five minutes and a
  hundred years ago. "Dana, I- I- I can't.  Not right now.  I don't think
  this is a good idea," he mumbled, stepping back.
  
  His skin was warm and damp from hers, and he rubbed his throat
  nervously.  Dana nodded, reaching for her wrapper, pulling the fabric
  around her before she let the blanket fall to the floor.   
  
  "It probably seemed like a better idea before I stood up," she said,
  looking awkward. She curved her arm around her belly, stroking.  
  
  "I do love you," he told her.
  
  She smiled sadly and nodded that she knew that.
  
  He tried to think of some way to explain that he didn't find her
  repulsive, that he just wanted to climb into the bath and scrub off his
  top three layers of skin before he touched her again.
  
  "I forgot," he said a few minutes later, helping her into bed, then
  tucking the covers around her and sitting beside her.  He reached into
  his vest pocket and pulled out a folded carnival flyer. "Melvin Frohike
  sent this for you. It's the Feejee Mermaid," he explained, showing her.
  "P.T. Barnum is exhibiting it.  It's half fish, half monkey.  Very
  shocking.  A horrific abomination of nature. No lady in a delicate
  condition is allowed in the tent to see it.  Sure to bring on labor. 
  Anything?"
  
  She waited a bit, then shook her head, looking tiredly bemused "Thank
  you for trying, though."
  
  "I am trying, Dana.  Please don't give up on me.  I'm not as hopeless as
  I seem."
  
  "I will speak to Saint Tomas about you," she teased. "He is the patron
  saint of doubters."
  
  "Doubting Thomas," he responded, considering. "Patron of the blind,
  stonemasons, theologians, mad dogs, hemorrhoids, and skeptics."
  
  "He is a busy saint.  And the last step before Saint Jude of lost
  causes."
  
  She rested her hands on her belly, and he put his hand over hers.
  "Thomas?" he asked. 
  
  "Tomas," she agreed.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  The universe was against him.  1866 was the year to smite Fox Mulder,
  and Fate was hurrying to get it all in before December ended.  And
  Mother Nature seemed to bear him a personal grudge, as well.
  
  "Maybe you and Sam should catch the earlier train," Dana suggested,
  looking out the window. "Just in case." 
  
  For once, the street in front of the house was silent, a smooth expanse
  of white.  It seldom snowed more than a couple of inches in Washington,
  so few people had horse-drawn sleighs.  A trio of boys was hard at work
  on a snow fort, but most families were huddled around their hearths,
  sipping hot cider and waiting out the storm.  
  
  He handed Dana another shirt, and she placed it in the leather satchel,
  along with a few sets of clean socks and underwear.
  
  "I'm thinking about it," he answered, coming to look over her shoulder.
  "There's no sense cutting it any closer than we have to, and the storm's
  going to slow the train down.  We'll have to walk to the station.  The
  streetcars and cabs aren't running and I'm not dragging anyone out in
  this to bring our horses back if we ride."
  
  The windowpane fogged, and he wiped it clear with his hand, still
  considering. 
  
  "Yes, I think we'll go ahead and leave.  I'll have Rebekah pack us a
  snack, and we'll bundle up and get going.  Will you be all right?"
  
  There was no answer, so he glanced down, noticing she was bracing her
  hands against the windowsill and leaning forward.
  
  "Dana?"
  
  She looked up, gritting her teeth and breathing shallowly.
  
  "Another contraction?"
  
  She nodded.
  
  "That's two in one hour."
  
  Another silent nod, which indicated she was less than grateful to him
  for keeping track.
  
  "Does it hurt?" he asked uncertainly, making the same face he did when
  someone mentioned castration or syphilitic lesions.
  
  "Yes, it hurts," she said though clenched teeth, then closed her eyes
  like she could block out the pain. "Oh God, it hurts."
  
  "I'm sorry," he said in his tiniest, sorriest voice. "I am so sorry.  Is
  there anything I can do?"
  
  He stepped toward her, noticing the floor was wet.  A puddle of fluid
  seeped from underneath her robe, punctuated with swirls of blood and
  something greenish-black.
   
  "Get the doctor?" he asked, and she shook her head, finally taking a
  deep breath.
  
  "Help me to bed," she reminded him, standing up straighter.
  
  It was a good thing she remembered: he was so rattled he would have left
  her standing right there.
  
  "Do you want another nightgown first?" 
  
  She nodded, raising her arms so he could strip off her ruined robe and
  gown and replace it with a clean one.  He threw the soiled clothes at
  the puddle, then put his arm around her shoulders. "I'm just going to
  pick you up.  Is that all right?"
  
  She nodded, letting him carry her to the bed.  As he was laying her
  down, Rebekah knocked and entered, bringing Dana's lunch tray so she
  wouldn't have to tackle the stairs.  Samuel followed, tagging after
  Rebekah as easily as he'd tagged after Poppy.
  
  "I think it's time," Mulder said, putting a stack of pillows behind her.
  "Sammy, wait in the hall.  I'll be right there." 
  
  "Dana?" 
  
  "It is all right, Samuel," Dana responded, "The baby is coming."
  
  "Should I get the doctor?" he asked.
  
  "Can you do that?" Mulder asked, dreading leaving Dana to go himself.
  "Can you find the doctor and come right back?  You won't run off?"
  
  "I'll come right back," Sam promised.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  Dana wasn't normally a restless person, but she couldn't seem to get
  comfortable for more than a few seconds.  Instead of staying in bed, she
  paced as long as she was able.  She stood and leaned forward, bracing
  her hands on the footboard.  She knelt on all fours, then shifted to her
  back again, then side to side, then to her back, which was how Rebekah
  found her when she returned with clean towels and a basin of water.
  
  "How far apart?"
  
  "About five minutes," Mulder answered.
  
  "Hard?"
  
  He nodded.  He could feel the womb becoming as hard as rock beneath his
  hand on her abdomen, then softening again.  As the contraction passed,
  he wiped her forehead, which helped no one but gave him something to do. 
  He shouldn't even be with her, but it was his house and he dared anyone
  to tell him to leave.
  
  "It hurts in my back," she said tiredly, looking like she might cry. "It
  should not hurt in my back."
  
  "The doctor's coming," he assured her. "Try to rest until the next
  pain." He looked at Rebekah, then at the clock, and asked tersely,
  "Where is he?  It's been two hours."
  
  No one mentioned that the snowdrifts hit a man mid-thigh, it was getting
  dark, and God only knew where the doctor might be.
  
  Dana rolled toward Mulder so Rebekah could replace the towel under her
  hips.  He was watching Dana's pale face, but noticed there was a slight
  pause before Rebekah told her to roll back.  When she dropped the used
  towel in the basket beside the bed, he saw blood on it.
  
  He didn't remember there being much blood before Emily was born.  After,
  yes, but not before.
  
  "Ma'am, I'm no doctor," Rebekah said quietly, "But I have five babies of
  my own and I was there when this one-" she nodded to Mulder, "Was born. 
  Will you let me check?"
  
  Dana nodded, and Mulder got up to lock the door.  Most of the staff
  hadn't made it to work because of the storm, but Emily's nursemaid was
  in the house, as was the cook.  He faced away from the bed, listening to
  the sheets shifting and limbs moving, but turned when Rebekah called for
  him.
  
  "The baby's head is here," she told him, pulling the sheet back in place
  and putting her hand high on Dana's belly. "He hasn't turned.  The womb
  is already three fingers open.  This baby's big and coming fast.  We
  need a doctor.  Now," she said, speaking softly, but gravely. "Once she
  starts to push…" She trailed off, shaking her head silently.
  
  "Sam went to get the doctor," he answered. "He should be back any
  minute."
  
  "I'll stay with her while you go," Rebekah responded.  She wiped her
  other hand on a towel, leaving more smears of blood.  "Just find anyone
  you can.  Hurry."
  
  "Mulder," Dana mumbled weakly.
  
  "I'm gonna find a doctor," he assured her, finding an encouraging smile,
  then gnawing his chapped lips. "And I'll be right back."
  
  She nodded again, letting go of his hand.
         
  *~*~*~*
  
  As cold and wet and frightened as he was, he exhaled when he saw Aramis
  and the doctor's gelding already in the stable, their sides still
  heaving and tails caked with snow.  Sam had made it back with a doctor
  before Mulder had.  The doctor's wife had said her husband was either at
  the Lowell's lancing a boil or McCutcheon's treating rheumatism.  She
  said Sam had ridden to the Lowell's to check, so Mulder turned his horse
  toward rheumatism.  And come up with nothing except an old man who
  wanted to tell him about his tricky hip.  He'd pounded on every doctor's
  door that he knew, and, if Sam hadn't made it back, planned to head for
  either the military hospital or the asylum and kidnap a doctor at
  gunpoint, if necessary.
  
  He was just stopping long enough to get his gun.    
  
  And make sure Dana still needed a doctor, not a priest.
  
  "I'll see to the horses," the cook said, taking the reins from his numb
  fingers. "I saw you ride in, and no one wants dinner, anyway.  I know
  about horses.  You get on inside."
  
  As soon as he could think again, he was giving all these people a huge
  raise.
  
  The doctor must have told Sam he wasn't allowed upstairs, because he was
  sitting on the stairs, one step down from the top.  Like Mulder, his
  hair was plastered to his head, and his cheeks and lips looked surreally
  crimson against his half-frozen skin.  
  
  "How is she?" Mulder asked, rubbing his arms as he climbed the stairs.
  "Sam?"
  
  "I don't know.  The doctor's with her.  I'm sorry I took so long."  
   
  "No, you did fine.  You found him before I did.  I couldn't find
  anyone."
  
  "I was afraid I took too long," Sam mumbled, picking an imaginary piece
  of lint off the step. "Again."
  
  "No.  You did wonderful.  Go to your bedroom and change your clothes,
  and I'll meet you back here in a few minutes.  And I'll find out how
  Dana's doing."
  
  Sam nodded and stood, his legs stiff with cold and his wet socks making
  squishing noises inside his boots as he trudged down the hall.  Mulder
  knocked on the door of the master bedroom, calling quietly for Rebekah. 
  He noticed his satchel was packed and waiting in the hall so he could
  take it and go without having to say goodbye to her and having a scene
  in front of the doctor.  Dana would think of things like that.
  
  The doctor looked appalled when Rebekah let him in, like his sanctuary
  was being invaded, but Mulder ignored him and sat on the bed beside
  Dana.  She looked pale and tired, but calmer than she'd been earlier.  A
  bottle on the night stand indicated the doctor had just given her
  something, maybe morphine, to ease the pain. 
  
  "How are you?" he asked, stroking the sweaty strands of hair that had
  worked their way out of her braid. "How's our Thomas?"
  
  "The doctor is going to try to turn him.  It should be all right now,"
  she said softly.
  
  "Good," he said as if he believed her.  Dana wouldn't win any prizes for
  lying. She could be closed-lipped, but once she opened her mouth, she
  might as well tell the truth, because she never fooled anyone.
  
  "I want you and Samuel to be careful.  I will have Rebekah wire Boston
  as soon as the baby comes.  There will be a telegram waiting when you
  get there."
  
  He stood, moving the hands of the clock forty-five minutes ahead. "Damn
  it, we just missed the last train," he said irritably. "I bet it's
  leaving the station right now. I suppose I'll have to stay here."
  
  She exhaled tiredly, but offered no objection.  He could see her eyes
  becoming glassy and her body relaxing as the morphine took hold.
  
  "Mr. Mulder, I need you to wait outside," the doctor announced, rolling
  up his sleeves.
  
  "I'll be right outside," he said lightly, getting up.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  End: Paracelsus XI