In 1861, the snide joke was that one seldom saw a 
dead Union Cavalry soldier.  At the onset of the war, 
104 of the 176 U.S. Cavalry officers had sided with 
the south, leaving most northern troops to be 
commanded by inexperienced officers.  Confederate 
horsemen were better trained and better utilized, 
while the Union thought of its cavalry as extravagant 
and decorative.  After the first battle of Bull Run, 
though, and after Mulder lost an uncle as J.E.B. 
Staurt's mounted soldiers expertly pursued and cut 
down the retreating Union troops, the north took 
cavalry soldiers more seriously.
  
By 1862, they were the highly prized eyes of the 
northern army: scouting, spying on enemy movements, 
and disrupting their communication and supply lines.  
Additionally, the cavalry provided a mobile striking 
force for raiding or propping up a flagging flank 
during a battle.  They traveled quickly, sometimes 
spending twenty hours a day in the saddle, and able 
to cover more than three hundred miles in ten days.  
Soldiers learned to sleep on horseback.  They learned 
to travel lightly and live off the countryside.  
Since they were often closer to the enemy army than 
their own, they learned to be on alert for any sound, 
even in the dead of night.
  
Especially in the dead of night.
  
The first thing Mulder heard was Samuel whispering, 
asking urgently if someone was all right.  When he 
heard Dana answer that she was fine, Mulder sat up, 
trying to figure out what she was doing in the hall.  
She could hardly get out of bed without help. 
  
"Can you walk?" Sam whispered, and there was a pause 
before he asked, "May I pick you up?"
  
Dana must have agreed, because only one set of 
footsteps approached the bedroom.  The door squeaked 
open, and Samuel entered, carrying Dana in his arms.  
She looked very small against him - fragile - but his 
son had always been good with fragile things.
  
If she'd really been injured, Sam would have already 
raised the alarm. Although he'd refused any contact 
with Dana since the baby had been born two weeks ago, 
Mulder knew he kept tabs on her.  He'd woken more 
than once to see Sam in the bedroom doorway at night, 
silently watching her as she slept.
  
Curious, Mulder laid back on the sofa, concealed by 
the darkness.  
  
Instead of laying her on the bed, Sam set her 
carefully on her feet, then steadied her arm as she 
climbed onto the mattress. "Should I get the doctor?" 
he asked, pulling the blankets over her.
  
"No, I just got dizzy," she answered, sounding 
embarrassed.
  
"You're not supposed to get up.  You're supposed to 
stay in bed.  The doctor said so. Father would-" 
Samuel turned his head toward the sofa, and Mulder 
closed his eyes. "Father would have a fit if he 
knew."
  
"I did not want to wake him.  He does not get enough 
sleep."
  
Mulder opened his eyes a quarter inch, watching them 
across the room. Sam had on trousers, but his shirt 
was untucked and hung loosely from his shoulders.  
He'd been pulling his black hair into a ponytail at 
the base of his neck, but it was down now, and he 
pushed it behind his ears nervously.  Dana wore her 
nightgown, but not her wrapper, and her braid kept 
only a minority of her curls back from her face.  She 
was less than ten years older than Sam, but they 
looked almost the same age, especially with the 
roundness having a baby had brought to her face.
  
Samuel was usually at ease with Dana - as much as he 
was at ease with anything besides a sketch pad and a 
horsehair bow - but he seemed awkward now.  Afraid.  
Guilty.
  
"You're really all right?  What if- What if I wake 
Father, but I won't tell him you got up?  I'll just 
say you need him."
  
"Samuel, I am fine.  Please let him sleep."
   
Sam didn't answer, but sat on the wooden chair beside 
the bed, shifting restlessly. "What was it you 
needed?  Why were you up?"
  
"I wanted to check on Emily.  I had a dream. A bad 
dream."
  
"She is fine.  It's the medicine," he assured her. 
"The medicine gives you the bad dreams.  My mother 
had them.  You have to remember that they're not 
real."
  
"I will try," she answered as if Sam's innocent 
advice was the answer to all things. "You can go back 
your room.  I am sorry I upset you." 
  
"Do you promise to stay in bed?  Father won't forgive 
me if something happens to you, too.  He loves you."
  
"I will stay in bed," she promised, sounding tired. 
"Will you come see me tomorrow?  I miss talking with 
you."
  
"The doctor says I'm not allowed."
  
Mulder inhaled in surprise.  That was a lie, or at 
least a twist on the truth.  No one was supposed to 
upset Dana, but the doctor hadn't forbidden anyone 
from seeing her.  She couldn't have Emily bouncing 
all over her, and it wasn't proper for Byers to enter 
the bedroom to visit, of course, but she was allowed 
to sit up and have a conversation with Sam.
  
"If I would ask the doctor or your father, would they 
say you could not see me?" Dana asked quietly.
  
"No," Sam confessed sheepishly.
  
"Has something happened that you are angry with me?"
  
"Did you tell him-"
  
"No," she said quickly. "I promised you I would not."
  
Sam shifted his sock feet, interweaving his ankles 
with the rungs of the chair.  He leaned forward so he 
was close to the bed, but not touching it.
  
"You were very sick, Dana, but Father says you don't 
remember.  He says you died."
  
"Obviously, I did not die, Samuel. I am still here," 
she reminded him.
  
Sam shifted his feet against the rungs again. "I 
dreamt you did," he confessed. "That you bled to 
death.  I dreamt it for weeks before the baby came."
  
"But you just told me dreams are not real."
  
"Maybe this one was," he said softly. "I heard Father 
say he saw your spirit, asked it to stay, and you 
started breathing again.  That's what Rebekah says, 
too.  She says it's true."
  
Dana was quiet a moment, seeming unsettled. "I do not 
know.  I remember you bringing the doctor, and then I 
think I remember your father returning. After that, 
the next memory I have is opening my eyes and seeing 
him with his arm in a sling, looking like he had not 
slept or shaved in a week."
  
"He hadn't.  I've never seen him so upset.  Not even 
when Mother died. He was... If I hadn't found the 
doctor, I wouldn't have come back.  That way he 
wouldn't have had to look at me.  Then he asked me to 
do something so simple, and I couldn't. I stood there 
like a coward, and then I- I just ran. If you hadn't 
started breathing again, he never would have forgiven 
me."
  
There was a long pause, and then she asked, "Samuel, 
you keep saying your father would not forgive you if 
I had died.  Do you think he has forgiven you for 
what happened to your mother?"
  
Mulder stiffened.  As he strained to hear their 
hushed voices, his breathing seemed too loud, so he 
tried to breathe quieter, and then his heartbeat 
seemed too loud.
  
"I promised I'd watch Mother while he was away.  I 
wasn't watching her. I knew she was upset about the 
baby. I knew she was thinking of cutting herself, 
like before, but I was lollygagging with the horses."
  
"How could you know what she was thinking, Samuel?  
Did she tell you?"
  
"No." His silhouette shrugged. "I just knew. I had 
dreams, like with Grandfather. Anyway, Father's used 
to being disappointed with me."
  
"When you ask if he is disappointed with you, what 
does he say?"
  
"He says no, he's not. That we're different, but he's 
proud of me."
  
"Maybe you should listen to him."
  
"Maybe there's a reason he wanted another boy so 
much," Sam said softly. 
  
The chair squeaked tensely.
    
"He loves you, Samuel.  He will always love you.  Do 
not underestimate him."
  
There was no response.
  
"If you sit at the top of the stairs and play your 
guitar, I can hear it," she said after several 
seconds of silence. "Will you play Mozart?"
  
"All right," Sam agreed. 
  
He saw his son stand and adjust Dana's blankets again 
before leaving quietly.
  
"You can breathe now, Mr. Mulder," Dana said softly, 
after Sam's footsteps had faded away.
  
  *~*~*~* 
  
Only children believed in happily-ever-after, but 
then, he'd been a child - an idyllic young man 
dreaming of a future too perfect to be real.  
  
He'd wanted, first of all, to be a dutiful son and to 
make his parents proud.  He'd wanted to be a soldier 
and have men follow him to victory, just as they'd 
followed his father.  He'd wanted the admiration of 
peers and the comforts money could buy - a fine home, 
well-bred horses, and the trappings of a gentleman.  
He'd wanted a beautiful, loving wife to willingly lie 
beside him at night, and healthy children to hold in 
his arms.  At fifteen, it had all seemed easily 
attainable.  Then Sarah had died.
  
Dreams were scoured down over time, their polish and 
gilt eroding away so their true core showed through.  
  
He had his boyhood dream, Mulder realized late one 
night, when the house was quiet.  The boy had just 
grown into a man.
  
As a father, he realized his own parents would have 
been proud of him if he'd become a beggar or a rag 
picker.  The old blue uniform in the wardrobe held a 
row of medals, and, in exchange for victory, his body 
and brain bore scars he would carry with him until he 
died.  Respect had become more important than 
admiration, and many men respected his courage to 
print the truth, whether they agreed with him or not.  
He had all the fine things he'd wanted, though he'd 
discovered they were merely that: things.  He 
recalled the sweltering Indian summer he'd spend 
sleeping on his bedroll in Dana's hayloft, clinging 
to a fine thread of happiness rather than returning 
to the hollow comforts of an empty mansion in DC.  
  
As a boy, he would have never envisioned himself 
marrying a woman like Dana, but he wasn't a boy any 
longer.  Where he was impulsive and intuitive, she 
was logical and methodical.  He leaped; she held his 
feet to the ground.  He loved, and she let him.  She 
was his ally even when he doubted himself, and he was 
her protector when she didn't think she needed 
protected.  She was there when he needed her, and he 
let himself need her.  As he'd once hoped, they 
filled in each other's cracks, and no one, even 
Poppy, could come between that for very long.  They 
had children - two beautiful girls and a son, each 
with their future still unwritten.  If he allowed her 
to, his wife would willingly come to him as soon as 
she was able, risking her life to give him another 
child.
  
Fathers cast a long shadow.  There was no glory in 
war.  Money can't buy happiness.  Home is where the 
heart is.  A virtuous woman's price was far above 
rubies, and every child was a miracle.  As the years 
passed, dreams distilled down to reality and there 
was more truth in old sayings.  This was a chance at 
the life he'd envisioned, complete with its everyday 
flaws and miracles.
  
As that realization settled over him, Mulder listened 
to a train in the distance and Dana's soft breathing 
as she slept.  He walked to the bed and lay beside 
her, then curled his body against hers in the 
darkness. He put his arms around her thankfully, 
closed his eyes, and didn't dream that night.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
This time, they started with a firm handshake and 
ended with a hug.  
  
"It is so good to see you again," Byers said 
thankfully. "Everyone's been worried.  How is, uh, 
everything?"
  
"Dana's better," Mulder answered, taking off his coat 
and hat.  The snow had melted a week ago, leaving 
behind the bleak coldness of January.  The icy mud 
was four inches deep in the streets, but the empty 
lobby of The Evening Star building was warm, and 
smelled, as always, of coffee and dusty newsprint and 
electricity.
  
Mulder looked around, glad to be back, even for a 
moment. 
  
"She's much better.  The baby's fine," he added, 
realizing Byers was waiting for him to elaborate.  He 
was making good on his promise not to interfere, but 
Dana was his friend and he wanted to know. "Come by 
and see them, if you want.  I'll be there, and Dana 
was downstairs for a bit today.  She gets tired 
easily, but she'd probably like someone to talk to 
besides me."
  
"Good," Byers responded, nodding, then seeming at a 
loss for anything else to say. "I'm glad."
  
"I just came by to get something out of my desk. 
There's a book I want. I didn't think anyone would be 
here on a Sunday night."
  
"I was staying late, finishing a few things. 
Frohike's upstairs."
  
"Frohike's right here," another voice announced as 
heavy feet hurried down the stairs. "Right here.  
How's the pretty redhead?"
  
"She's much better.  The doctor says she should be 
fine," Mulder answered, stepping back before Frohike 
tackled him. "And we have a new redhead.  Kind of 
chestnut, actually, but I think I see some red."
  
Mulder tried not to grin stupidly, but didn't even 
come close.  Society considered it unseemly for a 
father to be so openly proud of a new daughter, but, 
for Mulder, that standard was something else society 
could shove where the sun didn't shine.  

"Congratulations," Frohike responded, and Byers 
agreed, smiling. "Well, sit down and tell us all 
about your beautiful baby girl."
  
Frohike poured coffee, added a celebratory shot of 
brandy to each mug, and they settled into Mulder's 
office, pushing aside the books and stacks of paper.  
It seemed odd, after weeks, to be behind his desk 
again, and odder that it held exactly the same mess 
he'd left behind.
  
"Cailin's perfect.  No offense, Byers - I know you're 
proud of your girls - but my daughter is the most 
beautiful, intelligent, wonderful little girl in 
history." Mulder paused, propped his feet up, and 
grinned impishly. "It is possible I'm biased."
  
"I do have to ask," Byers said, seeming amused rather 
than offended. "Cailin?  Why did you name your baby 
girl Girl?"
  
"Why does everyone keep asking me that?  It's her 
name.  What do you want me to call her?  Harvey?  
Clyde?  Thurman?"
  
"Thurman was my late mother's name," Frohike said 
somberly, hiding behind his mug and adding a dramatic 
sniff. "That's a beautiful name."
  
Byers frowned uncertainly. "My mother's name was 
Katie," he said earnestly, missing the joke.
  
Mulder succeeded in keeping a straight face, but 
Frohike made a rude snorting noise and had to wipe 
coffee off his grizzled chin and the desk in front of 
him.
  
"I've missed you, Byers," Mulder responded honestly.
  
Byers blinked, then startled as something crashed 
close by.
  
"Jesus!  What was that?" Mulder asked, hurrying into 
the dark lobby. One of the large windows facing the 
street had shattered, and shards of glass glittered 
dangerously.  It crunched under Mulder's boots as he
walked through. Spotting the source of the commotion, 
he picked a brick up from the polished tiles.
  
"What happened?" Byers asked as Frohike stuck his 
head out the door, trying to see who'd thrown it.  

The muddy street was empty.
  
"I think," Mulder said, unwrapping a sheet of paper 
from the brick and shaking the glass off it. "We've 
just succeeded in this business." He held up the 
paper, showing them the words 'Niger Lover' scratched 
in red ink. "We've upset the KKK."
  
"I'm touched," Frohike responded, putting his hand 
over his heart.
  
Congress was considering an amendment to The 
Constitution granting citizenship to Black males, 
giving them the right to vote and hold public office.  
It would also bar any ex-Confederate soldier, and 
anyone who'd given aid to a Confederate soldier, from 
office, thereby politically crippling the old south.  
The Evening Star, along with many other liberal 
newspapers, was publicly supporting the amendment.  
It had its flaws, but it was at least a step in the 
right direction.
  
Mulder and Byers had similar political views and 
seldom disagreed on what to print, but Byes had sent 
a messenger to Mulder's house with the editorial 
before he ran it, knowing it would be controversial 
and wanting to make sure it was all right.  DC had 
been a slave-holding district, and was plagued by 
corruption as the government tried to rebuild.  The 
south had recovered enough to be chafing under 
military rule, and giving ex-slaves the right to vote 
- and requiring each rebellious state to accept the 
amendment before being readmitted to the Union - was 
pouring salt into an already smarting wound.
  
"I don't know that I have any special fondness for 
Niger, though," Mulder said, feigning deep thought. 
"That's West Africa, I believe.  Poppy once made 
something called moambe stew, which she swore was her 
great grandmother's recipe and wasn't the same 
without the elephant meat. I liked it, though."
  
"How is Poppy?" Frohike asked curiously. "I'm hearing 
all sorts of rumors..."
  
"We are not talking about her," Mulder responded.  He 
crumpled the piece of paper, tossed it into the air, 
then swatted it across the lobby. Leaving the glass 
for the janitor to sweep up, he turned, shoved his 
hands in his pockets, and ambled back to his office. 
"We're talking about my beautiful baby girl."
   
  *~*~*~*

It didn't matter; the maids had decided he was insane 
long ago anyway. As for propriety... It was only 
after Dana became pregnant that he'd realized anyone 
in the kitchen could clearly hear what was happening 
in the bedroom above.  Before Sam returned, Mulder 
had been fond of long, horizontal lunch breaks, so 
there probably wasn't much propriety left to 
preserve.
  
He lounged on the sofa, pretending to read his book 
but actually watching as a maid helped Dana dress.  
Her hair went up first: tamed by the brush, coerced 
into a braid, and pinned into a loose knot on her
crown.  She rolled on fine silk stockings and secured 
them with garters below each knee, then slipped off 
her dressing gown, revealing lace-trimmed pantalets 
that reached her calves.  She wore a simple white 
chemise against her skin, then a corset, which the 
maid tightened cautiously, stopping the instant Dana 
told her to.  She started to button a corset cover 
over it, but the fabric didn't meet in front, and 
Dana took it off, not bothering.  She was only 
dressing to go downstairs. It would be weeks before 
she was well enough to go out again, but her priest 
was coming to Saturday afternoon tea.
  
"Petticoats, or do you just want your wrapper, 
Ma'am?" the maid asked, opening the wardrobe.
  
"Petticoats. I will try a dress," Dana answered, 
looking unenthusiastically her choices.  Anything 
that might fit dated to her sixth month of pregnancy.  
Before that, she'd let out her regular dresses, and 
soon after, she'd resorted to what Mulder called her
'watermelon smuggling wardrobe:' all black and all 
empire-waisted.
   
"Give us a few minutes," Mulder requested, and the 
maid quickly obeyed, laying her armload of ruffled 
petticoats on the bed.
  
"What is it?" Dana asked, turning toward him.
  
He crooked his finger lazily, gesturing for her to 
come to him.
  
She came, looking like she was contemplating 
mischief.  Once she was able to get out of bed and 
see Emily and the baby whenever she wanted, her mood 
had quickly improved.  She wasn't supposed to lift 
Cailin, but she could hold her, and could snuggle in 
bed with Emily as they took their afternoon nap 
together.   
  
"I know what you really want," he teased, grinning up 
at her. 
  
"Oh, you do?" she answered, playing along.  
  
"Something I have.  Probably something you've long 
forgotten."
  
"What would that be?" she asked. "A waist?"
  
"Your dress."
  
She seemed puzzled, and waited while he retrieved the 
box that had come from a Parisian dress shop. 
  
"That dress?  You think that is appropriate for 
Father McCue?"
  
"No, it's not his color. Try it on. I wanna see how 
it looks." 
  
She raised a 'you can't be serious, Mr. Mulder' 
eyebrow.  
  
"I know it won't fit. Just for fun." He leaned down, 
whispering, "You do remember 'fun,' don't you? That's 
something we used to have, back in the dark ages.  
Fuuunnn," he said slowly, sounding it out for her. 
"Fun: that which what provides amusement or enjoyment 
for someone, namely to me.  Please?" 
  
"Oh, for God's sake," she mumbled.
  
She raised her arms, letting him slide the yards of 
delicate scarlet silk and gold lace carefully over 
her head.  Like a child being born, her crown, then 
her shoulders reappeared as the dress whispered down 
her body and settled into place with an expensive 
sigh.
  
"How does it look?" she asked tentatively, running 
her fingertips over the fabric.
  
"See for yourself," he answered, adjusting the 
neckline, then turning her so she faced the dresser 
mirror.  
  
If there had been a crowd, there would have been a 
sudden hush, but it was just the two of them.  He 
didn't know which of the two was more surprised.  
Suddenly, instead of a pale, vulnerable woman, an 
elegant lady in French couture stared back, her fair 
skin glowing and her blue eyes sparkling excitedly.
  
Aware she was the subject of scrutiny, Dana always 
dressed nicely, but conservatively.  She'd never meet 
the approval of DC's society matrons, but she tried 
not to give them more fodder for the rumor mill.  
Besides, she was a married woman and it wasn't her 
job to turn heads.  Her clothing was understated, 
designed to draw neither attention nor criticism.  
Between two babies and too many graves, function 
often took precedence over fashion.
  
His sensible Dana.  Not Dana, honey, or Dana, dear - 
just Dana.  When he thought, if he thought, he 
thought of her as pretty, pleasant, easy-on-the-eye, 
but for the first time the word 'exquisite' came to 
mind.
  
His lips parted in silent, breathless wonderment.
  
"Who is that?" she said softly, studying her 
reflection.  The woman in the mirror tilted her head 
uncertainly, as if there was a mistake and she might 
see someone else if she looked a little closer.
  
"That's my wife."

"Are you certain?" She turned sideways, watching the 
stranger who watched back.  Dana adjusted the 
neckline, self-consciously pulling the little lace 
sleeves higher on her shoulders.  
  
He grinned wickedly and pushed the sleeves back down 
again.
  
"Do you think Father McCue will approve?"
  
"I certainly hope not," he answered, pulling the 
edges of the bodice tight in the back so it was 
smooth in the front.  
  
It wasn't his imagination, and it wasn't the dress.  
She glowed.  She radiated like a beautiful woman who, 
perhaps for the first time, was confident she was 
beautiful.  Not Waterston's second choice, or Fox 
Mulder's third. Not a substitute for her sister or a 
convenient alternative to being alone. Not a bed-
warmer, a housekeeper, or a baby-maker.  Not a female 
body who was pretty enough in the dark, but a strong, 
independent lady who wore beauty like silk, not 
armor, by the light of day. 
  
She squared her bare shoulders and looked again, 
getting used to this new reflection. 
   
The dress was cut to the same measurements as her 
other formal gowns, which meant he could put his 
hands around the waist with room to spare. So soon 
after having Cailin, the back gaped open, but as long 
as only the front was visible, no one would ever 
know.  Just leave the buttons open.  It was an old 
undertaker's trick, and it took him a moment to 
realize why he knew it.
  
When he did, he swallowed, letting go of the edges.  
  
She could have died last month, and he would never 
have seen her for who she really was.  He'd thought 
he had - he'd memorized every inch of her body with 
his, but she was a woman that a man could strip naked 
and still not see all of.  Still not see most of.  
How arrogant of him, he realized.  He could explore 
her for decades and still be a novice. 
  
"Is something wrong?" Dana asked, watching his 
reflection in the mirror as he moved away.
  
Mulder shook his head tersely and sank back on the 
sofa. She followed, trying to keep the dress's 
enormous skirt from dragging on the floor.   

"What is it?"
  
"Nothing," he answered immediately. "I'm glad you 
like the dress.  It's beautiful on you."
  
She stood over him, looking perplexed. "What is 
wrong?"
  
"Nothing.  I, uh, I was just thinking of something." 
He shook his head, like memories were drops of water 
he could shake away. "Nothing.  Come here," he 
requested, pulling her to him.
  
Dana let him guide her so she straddled his lap, 
facing him, drowning them both in acres of blood red 
silk.  It seemed strange to be face-to-face again, 
without her belly between them.  He tried to recall 
the last time they'd been so close.  Not since the 
night Sam came home.  Not since five months ago.
  
"I'm just glad you're getting better."
  
"All right," she said uncertainly. "I am glad I am 
better, too."
  
"I love you," he said impulsively, urgently, as if 
he'd never said it before. "You can't imagine how I 
love you."
  
"I know.  I love you," she assured him, trying to 
comfort him.
  
"Do you?"
  
She nodded slightly.
  
"Enough?" he asked before he thought.
  
"Enough?  Love is love.  How does one love enough?"
  
"I don't know," he answered honestly.  He put his 
arms around her, pulling her against him.  The fabric 
of the dress crushed as she leaned into him, resting 
her head on his shoulder.  Beneath the rigid 
confinement of the corset, her rib cage rose slightly 
as she breathed, but otherwise she was perfectly 
still, just letting him hold her.  Hold onto her - so 
she didn't get away. 
   
"Just a little longer," he requested when the maid 
knocked on the bedroom door.
   
  *~*~*~*
  
Except for Frohike, he and Sam were the last men in 
the building, but Frohike never seemed to leave, 
anyway.
  
"May our artist please go home now?" Mulder asked, 
wrapping his fingertips over the top of the doorframe 
and stretching lazily. "We're supposed to feed him.  
He's a growing boy."
  
At the mention of food, Samuel put his sketch aside 
and stood up from his workbench, already a foot above 
Frohike's balding head and only a hair shorter than 
Mulder.  He rolled his shoulders, then reached for 
his coat and hat.  
  
"Give that pretty redhead all my love," Frohike 
requested as they left.
  
"She's afraid of your love," Mulder called over his 
shoulder. "Frankly, I'm afraid of your love."
  
"Don't call me Frankie," he yelled down the stairs. 
"'Night Sammy.  Thank you for the help."
  
"You're welcome.  Goodnight, sir," he answered 
politely.  Dana had given him a soft, cream-colored 
wool scarf for Christmas, and he wrapped it around 
his neck up to his chin, preparing for the icy wind.
  
Mulder locked the lobby door, checked the latch, then 
dropped the key into his coat pocket to mingle with 
his collection of trinkets and trash until he needed 
it in the morning.  More often than not, Byers beat 
him to the office, anyway.
  
"Is it all right if we walk?" he asked Sam as the 
streetcar approached the corner. "It's not that cold, 
and I wanted to talk with you.  About a few things.  
If you want."
  
Sam nodded hesitantly, then wrapped his scarf tighter 
and hid his hands in his coat pockets. "What did I 
do?"
  
"Nothing," he answered quickly. "Nothing at all.  I 
just- I suppose you've figured out..." He took a deep 
breath and tried again. "The legislature gave me 
until March 1st to be in Massachusetts.  That's next 
week, which means I can be in Boston with time to 
spare, but... But I'm not going, Sammy," he finally 
said. "I'm staying here.  With Emmy and Cally.  And 
you.  And Dana."
  
He blew out the rest of his breath in a long, silent 
whistle, watching Sam out of the corner of his eye as 
they walked down Pennsylvania Avenue toward The White 
House.
  
He wanted to believe Sam was young, moody, confused.  
Still dazed by the war and the loss of his mother and 
grandparents.  That he'd had some disagreement with 
Dana and, in a fit of temper, asked his father to 
divorce her.  Or that it had been Sam's dreams of 
Dana dying - dreams that, by all rights should have 
come true - that had caused Sam to act as he had.  
That it hadn't been Dana being in Melissa's place 
that had upset Sam, but the desperate need to escape 
watching another pregnant woman die.
  
It was impossible to tell.  Sam was kind, gentle, and 
so sensitive to others that he did seem almost 
empathic.  He lived in a borderland of four-four time 
and four-part harmony, of burnt sienna, cerulean 
blue, raw umber, and titanium white.  Like the new 
generation of radical French painters, he saw the 
real world only as moments of soft light and shadow.  
He seemed to stand perfectly still as life raged 
around him, and he could only watch impassively, 
unable to fight back, or run away.
  
Like Melissa, there was so much beauty in Samuel's 
world, but there was also so much pain.
  
"I'm not leaving, Sammy," he repeated. "Dana or D.C."
  
"You promised," Sam said quietly. "You said it would 
be a few weeks - until Dana was better, and she's 
better now."
  
Another streetcar clacked by, the draft horses' 
hooves clopping through the mud down the center of 
the avenue toward The Capitol. An afternoon snowstorm 
had left an inch of pretty powder on the rooftops, 
but on the streets it had been churned into more 
brown slush.  In the distance, the new Capitol dome 
glowed golden, like a yellow cake dusted with 
confectioner's sugar.
  
"I don't understand how you could want me to leave 
Dana, let alone divorce her.  I know you were afraid 
something would happen to her when the baby came, 
but... She's better now.  You seem to like her very 
much, Sammy. You trust her. If there's anyone you 
keep secrets from, it's me."
  
Sam kept his head down and continued walking.
  
He'd rehearsed the next part for weeks, so it was a 
little easier. "I've thought about what Dana said to 
you before Christmas: about your mother not knowing 
what she was doing when she died. In some ways that's 
true, but in some ways it's not. But, regardless, I 
was the reason she was going to have a baby. I was 
the one who told you it would be all right, to go to 
the stable, then fell asleep, so if you need to blame 
me, that's fine."
  
"Dana just said that to make me feel better," Sam 
responded softly.
  
"Oh. Well- Yes, she did. I didn't think you realized 
that, though."
  
Mulder worried his wedding ring with his thumb as 
they walked, trying to reorganize his thoughts. That 
hadn't been in the script of his speech.  

Sam paused, turning his head to one side and looking 
at nothing.
  
"What, Sammy?"
  
"You loved Mother, didn't you?  You would never have 
done anything to hurt her, would you?" he asked, as 
though he was afraid to hear the answer.
  
"No, I would never have hurt her." His stomach began 
to knot.  For the most part, Sam had been alone with 
Melissa the week before she died. God only knew what 
she might have said to him in her confusion.  Or what
Poppy might have said. "Sammy, did she tell you 
differently?  Did anyone tell you differently?"
  
Sam shook his head slightly from side to side. 
  
"Then why did you ask?" he tried, just in case he 
might get an answer.
  
He didn't.  The only thing he got was a puff of white 
vapor in front of his face as he exhaled.
  
"No, I never hurt her, Sammy.  Not on purpose.  I 
wouldn't have forced her or betrayed her.  I loved 
her.  I still love her.  It doesn't seem to matter 
how many times I tell you I love you and I'm proud of 
you, it never sinks in, but I'll say it again: I do.  
I'd do anything for you. You're my only boy, Sammy, 
and you'll always be my only boy.  There aren't going 
to be any more babies; it's too much of a risk for 
Dana. I don't know if that's something I should tell 
you or not, but I thought it might make you feel 
better."
  
Sam gave him a sidelong glance, but didn't comment.
  
"Does it?" he pursued.  
  
"Yes. No. I'm not sure."
  
"You're not sure," Mulder echoed, trying not to sound 
frustrated. 
  
Someone called to them from across the street, and 
Mulder and Sam raised their hands politely, and then 
walked on, shoulder to shoulder.  The sleet started 
again, stinging their cheeks and bouncing off their 
noses. 
  
"Please talk to me, Sammy," he pleaded. "Is it a 
girl? Is it that you miss Poppy? Grandmother? Tell me 
what's wrong."
  
"I can't," Sam answered simply, which was the most 
telling thing he'd said in weeks.
  
"Then talk to Dana.  She won't tell me.  She'll 
understand and she's good at keeping secrets.  All 
right?"
  
Sam nodded, probably because he just wanted the 
conversation to be over.
   
They reached the end of Newspaper Row and turned 
right onto 15th Street, passing the new Treasury 
building, then the busy telegraph office, which
had a line of people stretching out the door, waiting 
to send telegrams. They walked along the sidewalk in 
front of Columbian University until it ended at H 
Street, then turned and crossed the cobblestones, 
dodging the wagons, dogs, and buggies.  Two blocks 
later, at Saint John's Episcopal Church, they made 
another right, and Mulder could see his house down 
the block, its brick walls rising complacently behind 
the broad, snow-dusted lawn.
  
Early in their marriage, Dana had observed that he 
hadn't built a home; he'd built a fortress.  She'd 
asked him who or what he'd been protecting, and he'd 
only laughed.
  
"There's home," Mulder announced, glad to have 
something neutral and obvious to say. "I bet dinner's 
almost ready."
  
"Yes," Sam answered, seeming relieved. "Rebekah said 
we're having peach cobbler."
  
"Peach cobbler," he echoed approvingly. "If I'd 
thought, we could have sidetracked by Fussell's and 
bought ice cream to go with it.  Should we go back?"
  
"I could go," his son volunteered immediately.
  
"Well... All right." Mulder stripped off his gloves 
and searched his pockets for change.
  
Ice cream was twenty-five cents a quart, but all he 
could find were several crumpled slips of paper, two 
keys, a button, four pennies, three nickels, a five 
and a twenty-dollar bill, and some lint.  He held out
the five, not happy about giving Sam enough money to 
buy a train ticket. That was silly, of course.  Sam 
could just as easily take the cashbox, or pawn 
something, or, as he had before, simply be gone.  
Nothing short of locking him in the attic could keep 
him in DC if he wanted to leave.
  
"Your mother was dead when we found her, Sam.  It was 
too late.  I wanted to believe she wasn't, so I sent 
you for the doctor.  But there was nothing you or I 
or anyone could have done to help her."      
  
Sam nodded again, adjusting his scarf as he turned 
away.
  
"Get two quarts of vanilla," Mulder called after him, 
just so he could finally say something fruitful. "And 
whatever you want.  Emmy likes chocolate. And..."
  
He trailed off and gave up, watching his son crunch 
through the snow to get ice cream.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
There had been a flurry to create post-war memorials 
and cemeteries, but Arlington National Cemetery had 
been established a month after his father's death, so 
his white headstone stood beside Teena Mulder's in 
Georgetown.
  
William S. Mulder, beloved husband and father. 
Senator. Colonel.  West Point graduate. Decorated 
soldier. Born December 12, 1815.  Died April 1, 1865.
  
Forty-nine
  
Teena L. Mulder, beloved wife and mother.  Born June 
22, 1818.  Died November 24, 1866.
  
Forty-eight
  
Melissa Kavanaugh Mulder, beloved wife and mother. 
1835 -1864.
  
Twenty-nine
  
Sarah Kavanaugh.  1835-1850
  
Fifteen.  
  
Sarah's was the oldest grave.  When Jack Kavanaugh 
had finally sobered up and shown up hours after 
Sarah's death, and the doctor had told him how she'd 
died, he'd called her a whore, shoved Mulder aside, 
and walked out.  Not sure what else to do, Bill 
Mulder, instead of sending the body back to 
Tennessee, had bought the plot and buried Sarah in 
the Georgetown cemetery, which had done nothing to 
stem the gossip about how and why she'd died.
  
Kavanaugh had reappeared for her funeral, drunk, but 
looking appropriately bereft.  
  
Teena Mulder had cried, and her husband had comforted 
her.
  
Melissa had huddled and looked small.
  
Mulder had stood alone and felt little except empty.
  
He sat on the cold marble bench, gazing back across 
almost two decades.  Sam divided the flowers between 
his mother's and grandmother's graves, pulled a few 
dead winter weeds, then stood beside him, waiting.  
Mulder looked up at his son, his beautifully chiseled 
features framed by his black hair and outlined by the 
blackening storm clouds.  The hem of his black wool 
pea coat fluttered, and the wind blew the fringed 
ends his favorite scarf against his jaw. 
  
Sarah had been the same age as Sam when she died, and 
yet to Mulder's eyes, Sam looked impossibly young. 
And, for thirty-three, Mulder felt impossibly old.  
He tried to remember what it felt like to be fifteen, 
and almost couldn't.  He'd only been fifteen for 
about six months, then skipped directly to thirty.
  
"I tried to draw Mother last week, but I can't 
remember her," Sam murmured, as if telling a secret.
  
"We have photographs.  You have hundreds of 
sketches."
  
"But I couldn't remember her," he answered, 
emphasizing 'her.' "I was afraid I was just making 
her up.  I tried and tried, but I can't remember what 
was Mother and what was just the way I want to 
remember her."
  
"Sometimes, neither can I," Mulder admitted.
  
"It doesn't seem fair," Sam said quietly, staring at 
the row of elegant white stones.
  
"It never does," Mulder answered.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
As much as their society shunned sexual intercourse, 
it eroticized pain. Women wore rigid corsets that 
reduced their waists until they looked like they'd 
break in two, causing everything from fainting spells 
to miscarriage.  High-heeled slippers and hoopskirts 
were fashionable, uncomfortable, and often dangerous.  
And, partially to ensure premarital chastity and 
partially because their mothers spoke from 
experience, girls were told marital relations hurt.  
Often brides barely knew what sexual intercourse was, 
but their mothers were clear on two facts: it was 
very painful, and they had to do it because their 
husbands wanted to.
  
Mulder found it physically impossible to make love to 
a woman who was crying and pleading for him to stop, 
but given the birth rate, other men must not.
  
Gentlemen were taught that they married for children, 
not for sport. Wives were for children; mistresses 
and whores were for pleasure.  Once they had that 
all-important legitimate son, it was easier not to 
bother their wives in bed, which was often a relief 
to both parties.  Many men loved their wife and 
disliked pushing her into an act she found, at best, 
uncomfortable and distasteful.  They were devoted to 
her as the mother of their children, but it wasn't 
worth the effort to make love to her unless there was 
no other female body available.  The majority of 
wives were devoted to their husband, but embarrassed 
by his base behavior, unsure how to please him, and 
often terrified of conceiving again.
  
Marital fidelity was the exception, not the rule.  
For men.  A wife who strayed was likely insane, and 
quietly sent to a nunnery or mental asylum.  The 
female orgasm was shameful and doctors recommended 
surgical removal of the clitoris to correct such 
deviant hyper-sexuality.  Good mothers were not good 
bedmates, and frigidity was considered lady-like 
behavior.
  
Melly had been quite lady-like.  
  
With little means to prevent pregnancy except 
abstinence, abortion was common among all classes, 
including married women, and accepted so long as it 
was done before the mother felt the baby move.  
Wealthy women and courtesans sought out doctors with 
side entrances to their offices so patients could 
enter and exit unseen.  Working women, street whores, 
and unmarried girls sought out whoever or whatever 
was available, and like Sarah, often died in their 
attempt.
  
Most gentlemen had illegitimate children before they 
married, often with a maid or other working-class 
girl.  Once the affair cooled, those children were 
provided for, but politely dismissed as the follies 
of youth.  After a man married, it was considered bad 
form to seduce a servant in his own house, or to let 
his wife discover any further bastards.
  
There was roughly one prostitute to every four men in 
DC, ranging from pitiful creatures in dark alleys for 
a dollar to courtesans who expected to find a diamond 
necklace beside their pillow the next morning.  It 
wasn't uncommon for Mulder to hear a voice calling 
his name from the shadows, follow it, and be 
propositioned by a girl who'd once sold matches or 
flowers to him on the street corner but had 
discovered she could earn more selling her body.  
Occasionally, it was one of his former newsboys, his 
smooth cheeks and lips painted with women's rouge.  
  
There were more whorehouses than churches, catering 
to every imaginable budget, taste, and perversion. 
Set apart, though, and usually discretely at the edge 
of town, were the houses specializing in virgins - 
real or fabricated by a small sponge soaked in blood 
and a few acting lessons. Relations with a virgin was 
said to cure syphilis and gonorrhea, which, in some 
troops, forty percent of soldiers had contracted 
during the war and later brought home to their wives.  
For some, that was the attraction, but some men just 
liked the idea of being able to hurt a frightened 
young woman as much as possible, and were willing to 
pay for that privilege.
  
It was such a simple, natural thing - for a man to 
love a woman - yet the world had twisted and 
perverted it into something barely recognizable.
  
He understood the rarity of what he had with Dana; he 
just didn't know how to have it again.  He wanted to 
believe the problem was that it was too soon after 
the baby and she was still recovering.  He wanted to 
believe that was ninety percent of the problem, but 
it was perhaps ten, and that was being generous.
  
He hated Poppy.  He hated her with a white-hot 
passion for taking something that wasn't hers to 
take.  It seemed like a naive thing for a man to take 
pride in, but he had: he'd never been with a woman 
who wasn't or wouldn't soon become his wife.  He'd 
thought about it, he'd been tempted, and he'd even 
started down the path a few times, but he'd never 
really strayed.  But what Poppy had said, whether it 
was true or not, had planted a seed inside his head 
which had grown, its roots tapping into his dreams 
and flashing images across his brain whenever he 
closed his eyes.
  
Of course he'd wanted her. If he squinted his eyes, 
Poppy was the very image of Sarah.  She moved like 
her, sounded like her.  He'd heard a dozen men 
bragging about their affairs with Poppy while his own 
wife flinched and stiffened at his touch.  Of course 
he'd wanted her, damn it, but since that one night at 
Harvard, he'd never acted on that.  At least, he'd 
thought he never had.
  
Whether it was true or not, it might as well have 
been. "You asked and I wanted to," Poppy's voice 
whispered each time he tried to focus on Dana.
  
"What is wrong?" Dana had asked.
  
"Nothing," he'd mumbled, telling her she needed to 
relax.
  
She needed to relax; he needed to relax.  They'd gone 
out to dinner for the first time since the baby came, 
shared a bottle of wine, embraced in the carriage on 
the way home.  He'd helped her undress; she'd helped
him.  The house was dark and quiet, the children were 
asleep, the bedroom door was locked.
  
It still felt awkward, as though they'd never been 
intimate before.  
  
"I'm scared to even touch you," he'd admitted after 
it had become obvious.
  
"We have done this before," Dana had answered, 
referring to making love for the first time two 
months after Emily's birth. "Just go slowly."
  
"If we go any slower, we'll stop," he'd said in 
annoyance, more with himself than with her.  Dana was 
trying, but despite their best efforts, her body 
wasn't following suit, which made him even more 
nervous. "You're scared it's going to hurt, too, 
aren't you?"
  
"No.  It only hurts for a moment," she'd assured him. 
"Like being with a virgin," she'd teased.
  
"Never been with a virgin," he'd muttered, more 
focused on the idea that he had hurt her and she 
hadn't told him.  She was supposed to tell him if he 
hurt her.  They had a deal.  They'd all but spit and 
shook hands on it.  
  
"What?" he'd asked, realizing she was staring up at 
him in the darkness.
  
"What about, what about..."
  
"What about what?" he'd responded, catching up with 
her train of thought and silently daring her to ask.
  
Wisely, she hadn't.  
  
He'd exhaled and started over, beginning with her 
lips and working his way down again.  He'd caught 
himself glancing at the clock as he kissed her neck, 
then closed his eyes again.
  
"That is a sin," she'd decided before he'd even 
finished telling her about his trip to the pharmacy.  
He'd tried to tease and persuade her into the idea of 
prophylactics, but she wouldn't budge.
  
"So you want a baby every year?" he'd demanded.
  
"We have children when God decides we have children."
  
"Well, let's not help Him along."
  
"That," she'd said again, pointing to the sheath he 
was already humiliated about anyway, "Is a sin."
  
"Watching you die nine months from now is some sort 
of blessing?  Leave your priest out of our bed, 
please," he'd snapped angrily. "Three's a crowd."
  
He'd known immediately that was the wrong thing to 
say.  Very wrong.  He'd ribbed her good-naturedly 
about her faith, but he'd never belittled her before.  
  
Dana got up to leave.
  
"All right, all right!" he'd conceded, throwing the 
unused sheath to the floor.  He'd just pull out.  She 
couldn't do a damn thing about that except fume. 
"Fine.  It's gone.  Come back here."
  
He'd put his arm around her waist and pulled her 
back.  Still annoyed, Dana had swatted him away and 
he'd caught her hands, pushing her down. She'd 
struggled angrily, but not nearly as much as he'd 
thought she was capable of. 
  
"Do you think you're going somewhere?" he'd growled 
at her, still holding her hands down.
  
"Go to Hell," she'd snapped back.
  
"Not without you, love."
  
She'd responded with barred teeth that parted as he 
covered her mouth with his, and with angry eyes that 
closed as he touched her.  He'd thought she'd started 
to respond to lovemaking, but later realized that, to 
weak to fight back and unable to get away, she'd only 
stopped resisting.  He'd felt her bare body under 
his, her legs shifting apart obligingly.  He'd closed 
his eyes again, and finally there was only her.
  
He'd felt the tide grow stronger, sweeping over him 
and washing every other thought away.  His beard 
scraped against her face and neck, and her palms 
pressed against his.  He'd let go of her hands and 
felt her fingers gripping his shoulders as he sank 
deep inside her.  That was what he craved.  Not sweet 
words and giggles, but something primal, dark, 
dangerous, base.  That was what would make it better.
  
Suddenly, he'd realized she'd started struggling 
again.  She pushed at his shoulders desperately, 
wanting him off of her.  As soon as he'd withdrawn 
and moved back, she'd rolled away and curled into a 
ball, her face contorted in pain.
  
"Dana?"
  
She'd stayed still, legs together, trying to catch 
her breath.
  
"Dana?  My God, what's wrong?"
  
"It hurts," she'd said hoarsely.
  
He touched her bare hip, and she flinched, as if 
afraid he would hit her.
  
He'd removed his hand. "My God, are you all right?"
  
"I'm sorry," she'd managed as she caught her breath. 
  
"No, I'm sorry. I forgot. I thought... I was... I 
wasn't thinking.  Did I hurt you?"
  
She'd nodded, refusing to look at him.
  
"Dana, I'm sorry.  Very sorry.  Are you okay?"
  
She'd nodded again, wiping her eyes. "Sorry," she 
repeated.  After a moment, she'd shifted to her back 
again. "All right," she offered unconvincingly. 
"Just- Please be careful."
  
"No," he'd said immediately, disgusted with himself 
and unsettled that she would feel obligated to 
continue. "No, Dana," he'd repeated.
  
She'd looked, and then turned away.
  
Not sure what else to do, he'd lain down, curling up 
to her back and putting his arms around her.  He'd 
felt the tension in her body as he touched her.  He'd 
stroked her shoulder nervously, not sure what else to 
say or do except apologize again. "Relax.  It's too 
soon after the baby."
  
"I could..." she'd offered, starting to roll over to 
face him.
  
"I think it's a moot point," he'd admitted, his 
humiliation complete. His erection had vanished when 
he'd realized he was hurting her, and it wasn't going 
to reappear in the near future.
  
She'd rolled away again.  He'd swallowed and scooted 
closer, pulling the blankets over them. "Dana, I'm 
sorry," he'd tried one last time, but she'd only 
nodded, as embarrassed than he was.
  
So he'd let the subject drop.
  
And now he lay beside her, pretending to sleep, and 
telling himself it happened because it was too soon 
after Cailin, and he'd gone too fast. Beside him, she 
was pretending sleep as well, though he couldn't 
imagine what she must be thinking.  
  
He doubted he and Melly had been together two dozen 
times in their marriage, but he'd never physically 
forced her.  He'd known she disliked the act itself, 
but sometimes she did like kissing him, being close 
to him in the darkness.  Beyond that, either she 
cooperated or she got frightened and didn't, and he 
stopped.  He didn't think of it as refusing to please 
him - which no good wife would do - but rather as 
being unable to. While Dana's response to lovemaking 
was very different, he applied the same standard.  In 
his mind, there was a word for it when a man 
violently forced a woman, even his wife.
  
"You asked and I wanted to," Poppy's voice whispered 
to him again, and he rubbed his ear roughly, blocking 
her out.
  
Dana heard the noise just before he did and pushed up 
on her elbow, listening, before getting up to look 
out the window.  Twigs snapped in the yard, and 
downstairs, Grace bayed excitedly. 
  
"Who's out there?" he asked, his head still on the 
pillow and his arm outstretched, awaiting her return. 
"Did Grace spot a squirrel?" 
  
"There are men," she said softly. "There are men 
beside the house."
  
"Men?  Men doing what?" Mulder sat up, crawling nude 
across the mattress and getting up to look over her 
shoulder.
  
It was well past midnight.  The night watchman was 
out, but it was too early for the milkman or for 
farmers to be making their way to market. The groom 
and stable boys wouldn't come to work for hours, and 
Sam was supposed to be in his room down the hall.   
  
Mulder grabbed his trousers off the sofa, slipped 
them on, and went to the other window to check.
  
Dana was right: there were men in white robes and 
hoods in the yard.  As he watched, not sure what they 
were doing, he saw one put a torch to a large wooden 
cross, setting it ablaze in his front yard.  The KKK 
had burned houses and Negro schools farther south, 
but in DC, all they'd done was throw bricks, lurk, 
and make empty threats.  Until now.
  
"What are they doing?" Dana asked, putting on her 
wrapper.
  
"They're sending me a message," he answered.  He 
gritted his teeth angrily, hands on his hips. "I'm 
sending one back," he decided, jerking open the night 
stand drawer and grabbing his old Army revolver. 
  
  *~*~*~*
  
End: Paracelsus XII