Begin: Paracelsus IX
  
  *~*~*~*
  
Dear Melissa, 
  
I will warn you, I am in a dangerous mood - the kind 
when sarcasm rolls off me like static off a black cat 
and people find excuses to be someplace else.  I've 
quarreled with Dana, with Poppy, Byers, and with my 
bastard stepfather, who I punched as we were sitting 
down to dinner. It was no loss to the conversation, 
but it did get blood on the tablecloth, and I will 
hear about that.  I would have quarreled with our 
son, except there is no quarreling with our son.  The 
closest to quarreling with Samuel is arguing with the 
back of his head as he shrugs and walks away.  And, 
after dinner, when we were alone, Sadie's father 
asked me if I favored the poet Walt Whitman, and when 
I said I did, he kissed me on the mouth.
  
Thanksgiving dinner was not a success.
  
Since I am angry at the world, I will confess that I 
get angry at you sometimes, Melly, though I know I 
shouldn't.  Dana once told me she knew she should not 
feel a certain way, and yet that did not stop her. Of 
all the times you thought I was upset with you when I 
was not, it seems unfair to be angry with you for 
dying.
  
But I am.  
  
Knowing I have no right to be angry only makes me 
angrier.  Perhaps you were ready to die, but I was 
not ready to lose you like that. Neither was our son.
  
Occasionally, hints of my Sammy show through cracks 
in the plaster walls around him, and I think I can 
rip the chunks away and reach him.  
  
But I cannot.  
  
I would feel better if he would pout and stomp and 
yell that it is my fault, that I killed his mother, 
and that I'm betraying her with another woman.  
  
But he does not.
  
He's painfully polite to Dana and to me, likes Emmy, 
and has asked several times about the baby, worried 
something will happen to Dana, I think.  He has a 
tutor - or a series of them, rather - which gives him 
someone else to frustrate besides me.  He comes to 
the newspaper in the afternoon, sits in his corner, 
and does his engravings.  He plays cello - or any 
other instrument they ask him to - in the symphony.  
He scratches away behind his sketch pad.  Each day he 
seems a little better, and I want to think he's a 
little better, but something inside me senses it's 
like he's been sent to spend the summer with his 
boring spinster aunt - he's just biding his time 
until he can leave.
  
After you and Father died, after the war, when I 
couldn't find Sam, I felt like my heart had been 
broken in two and instead of blood, only rust-colored 
dust spilled out.  There was nothing left inside me 
to bleed.  When Sammy says he doesn't feel real, I 
understand.  When he says he just can't talk about 
the war - or about you or our Sarah or my father - I 
understand.  I want to shake him and yell that I 
understand, because he does not seem to understand 
that I do.
  
I forget, contrary to what Dana claims, that I'm not 
my son's hero anymore.  I can't kiss it and make it 
better, nor does he want me to try.  In that way, Sam 
is like Dana: the harder I push, the harder I push 
him away.  I forget he no longer believes me when I 
say, 'It will be fine.'
  
Well, I would not believe me either.
   
Mulder
  
  *~*~*~*
  
Melly could have run naked through the streets and 
people would have sighed, shook their heads, and 
said, "There goes Melissa Mulder, Representative 
Kavanaugh's daughter and Senator Mulder's daughter-
in-law, cousin to my Aunt Phyllis Morton of the 
Nashville Mortons, twice removed.  Poor thing's naked 
as a jaybird, bless her little heart. For God's sake, 
someone get Fox." Among bluebloods, any shortcoming 
was easily excused by adding "bless his little heart" 
after it, as in "Nathan likes to wear women's red 
flannel drawers and be whipped with a riding crop, 
bless his little heart."
  
Dana got no such leeway.  She was a newcomer, a word 
pronounced as if it had soured.  Aside from that, the 
very characteristics Mulder valued in her - 
intelligence, wit, courage, forthrightness - were met 
with suspicion.  She was an enigma in a society that 
liked to know the answer to every question before it 
was asked.  She wasn't one of them, nor did 
Washington's polite society have any intention of 
letting her become one of them.
  
"Do you think she minds?" a well-polished young 
woman's voice asked as a lace fan swished idly. 
"Minds the colored girl, I mean?  Lilly, Rosie, 
Violet - whatever her name is.  Do you suppose the 
new Patty wife minds?  In the house and all..."   
  
"I think," another voice answered cattily, "The 
question should be 'does the colored girl mind the 
new Patty wife?'"
  
The ladies were under the mistaken impression that 
because the Mulders' box at the opera had been empty 
earlier, it was currently empty. Unfortunately for 
the gossips in the hall behind him, on the other side
of the velvet curtain, Mulder could hear every word.  
  
So could Dana.  
  
He clenched his teeth and rolled his fingers into 
fists, tapping them lightly on the arms of his chair.  
They'd slipped in after the lights were dimmed, 
avoiding scrutiny, and would slip out early while the 
lobby was still empty.  As long as she was seated or 
wearing a cape, Harvey wasn't obvious.  Dana had 
heard Samuel practicing, and Mulder didn't see why 
she couldn't unobtrusively attend the opening night 
performance. People would talk, but people always 
talked.
  
There was whispering he couldn't make out, then, 
"Well, what do you expect?  He seems to be averaging 
a baby a year.  Melissa, then the housekeeper, then 
the new wife. If the new wife's big-bellied again, 
does that mean the housekeeper missed her turn?"
  
There was a flurry of giggles and admonishments that 
the speaker was "So wicked!"
  
"Well!  I bet you'd get more than a headache every 
night if he was your husband!"
  
"If he was my husband, I wouldn't need to get a 
headache," the first woman responded, swishing her 
fan. "And he wouldn't be tomcatting around with the 
nigger help."
  
"You know that's why Melissa did it, don't you?  She 
finally caught them," a new woman added dramatically, 
as Mulder's ears burned. "Walked right in on them."  
  
Livid, Mulder leaned forward to stand, not sure what 
he was going to say or do, but certain he'd think of 
something.  Dana put her hand on his forearm, 
stopping him.
  
"Samuel," Dana said quietly as the orchestra returned 
and the gaslights beside the stage were dimmed, 
signaling the end of intermission.
  
He exhaled and sat back, clapping politely as he 
gritted his teeth.  On stage, Samuel's smooth face 
seemed out of place among the bushy gray beards and 
time-weathered skin, but his talent wasn't.  He made 
a few adjustments to his cello and the sheet music in 
front of him, then scanned the boxes, making sure his 
father was there.  Mulder relaxed and nodded in 
acknowledgment.  Sam nodded back, then glanced at the 
back of the auditorium.  Finding the other person he 
was looking for, he drew his bow across the strings 
and focused on the conductor, waiting.
  
Following Sam's gaze, Mulder noted Poppy sitting 
alone, high in the balcony, in the colored section.  
He recognized the intricate silk bodice of the rose-
colored evening dress she was wearing; it was one of
Melissa's many castoffs.
  
Once the musicians were ready, the auditorium 
darkened and the conductor raised his baton.  
  
Mulder tipped his head close to Dana's and whispered, 
"That's not true. What those women said; it's not 
true."
  
She nodded, and the violinists inhaled, then embraced 
Mozart's frenzied notes with their horsehair bows.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
He helped Dana into the carriage, making sure she was 
warm and comfortable.  After she assured him she 
probably wouldn't catch frostbite in October, he 
returned inside to meet Samuel.
  
The first of the audience was just emerging from the 
auditorium and streaming into the lobby.  He moved 
against the tide, working his way around the edges 
and toward the stage.
  
He saw a handsome, dark-haired man trying to speak to 
Poppy as she left the balcony, reaching for her hand.  
She jerked away and moved on, leaving him standing 
alone at the bottom of the steps looking embarrassed.  
Alex, Mulder realized.  He thought of Sadie's oddly
familiar features, and the many military hospitals in 
DC during the war, overflowing with maimed and 
convalescing soldiers - and the puzzle pieces fell 
into place.  Under normal circumstances, a woman like 
Poppy would have been far out of Alex's reach, but 
perhaps the wartime pickings had been slim.  Or 
perhaps, in the craziness of the war, they had 
found love - or at least something that had 
passed for it - long enough to conceive a child.
  
As of late, Alex was one of Spender's cronies, but 
probably not his son.  He was one of those mysterious 
bastards that happen often in wealthy families.  From 
the look of him, he clearly belonged to the family 
tree, but no one ever mentioned exactly which branch 
had crossed with a pretty Russian chambermaid a few 
decades ago.  He was a charming ne'er-do-well, quick 
to exploit his family's connections when he was short 
of funds.  And Alex was always short of funds, yet 
adverse to any actual work. Like Spender's 
resemblance to Bill Mulder, Alex's resemblance to 
Mulder was only skin deep.   
  
Alex, seeing Mulder watching, raised his hand in 
greeting.  His other tuxedo sleeve hung limp, neatly
pinned closed.  Mulder waved in return, smiling 
sympathetically.  They weren't close, but they 
weren't enemies, either.  Alex was family - the kind 
who was loaned money if he asked, but wasn't invited 
to Christmas parties.
  
The little devil on Mulder's left shoulder an 
whispered evil suggestion, so he stopped at one of 
the lower boxes, leaning carelessly on the brass 
railing around the front.
  
A lace fan stopped swishing, and an attractive blonde 
woman blinked in surprise before she smiled 
enticingly.  He could have told Mrs. Andrew Wilder 
she could stop pretending her headaches; Mr. Andrew 
Wilder had a mistress in an apartment on L Street, 
and a prostitute in Mary Hall's brothel on Maryland 
Avenue that he'd visited every Tuesday for years.
Owning a newspaper meant Mulder generally knew 
everyone's dirty laundry, whether he printed it or 
not.
  
"The Negro woman," he told her, just for her 
edification. "Her name is Poppy. My wife's name is 
'Dana,' not Patty. Dana Mulder."
  
He smiled encouragingly at her red-faced 
mortification, as though he genuinely hoped her 
memory would improve, and then went to the stage door 
to wait for Sam.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
Dana mumbled what was probably the Gaelic equivalent 
of "Put me down; I can walk," but made no effort to 
do so and appeared content to spend the night the 
carriage.  She'd fallen asleep on the way home, 
soothed by the gentle rocking and safe against his 
shoulder.  Instead of waking her, Sam held the door 
open while Mulder carried her into the house and then 
up the stairs to their bedroom.
  
"I finally carried you over the threshold," he 
teased, helping her out of her evening dress and 
petticoats.
  
She stared at him sleepily, probably trying to decide 
if she was supposed to answer, then solemnly handed 
him her satin slippers before turning and crawling up 
on the mattress, still in her chemise and stockings.  
He kissed her forehead and belly as he tucked her in, 
and then closed the bedroom door as he left.
  
"You love her, don't you?" Samuel said as Mulder 
returned to the kitchen, humming to himself. "Dana."
  
Caught off-guard, he responded, "I care very..." He 
glanced at his son, seeing the dark, earnest eyes 
focused on him. "Yes, I do love her."
  
"She loves you.  She argues with you, she does."
  
"Caring for someone doesn't always mean you agree 
with them. I told you: she's nice, but very different 
from your mother.  She's asleep, though, so we'll get 
some peace and quiet for a while.  I think there are 
too many headstrong women in this house and not 
enough men. They have us outnumbered.  Reinforcements 
are on the way, though, and we're gaining on them."
  
"I'm glad."
  
Mulder waited, trying to figure out what his son was 
glad about, but Sam focused on making tea as though 
that was a normal stopping point for the discussion.  
  
"I thought you were wonderful tonight.  So did Dana; 
she was very impressed. We agreed: you're the best in 
your row," he added, limping through the one-sided 
conversation.
  
His son didn't laugh.
   
"If you want, we could go hunting tomorrow.  Do you 
think Amazing Grace remembers how to flush out 
rabbits?"
  
"I'd miss church with Grandmother."
  
"Well, we could, we could go early.  Before dawn. You 
could be back in time.  And Grandmother wouldn't mind 
if you missed, just this once.  We haven't been 
hunting in forever.  Or riding.  Would you rather 
just go riding?" he asked, thinking Sam might not 
like the sound of the rifles. 
   
Shrug.  
  
"Sam... Please stop that and talk to me.  Whatever 
you want to say, I want to hear it.  Whatever's 
wrong, I want to fix it, but you have to tell me."
  
His son shrugged, setting two steaming cups on the 
table as they sat down. 
  
"I know this is hard.  So much has changed, but I-"  
  
"You don't have to do this - make plans, come to hear 
me play, act like you want me here.  You've found a 
new life, and I'm just a leftover from the old one," 
Sam said, sounding far removed from the situation.  
  
Mulder took a breath before he answered, "You are my 
life.  You have been my life since I was barely older 
than you are now."   
  
Sam ran his fingers through his hair, leaving them on 
his crown as he leaned his elbow on the table.    
  
"When the war ended, instead of marching in the 
parade, I watched it. For three days, I watched every 
soldier who came down Pennsylvania Avenue, searching 
for you.  Then I came here, and Poppy and I sat on 
the front steps, waiting.  Days passed, then weeks, 
and you didn't come. Your mother was dead. I couldn't 
go in our bedroom or the bathroom because all I could 
see was her laying there.  I could see the coffin in 
the parlor.  I could smell her perfume.  Poppy took 
one of your mother's hats off the hat rack, and I 
screamed at her.  Grandfather was dead. The baby - 
your sister - was dead.  And you didn't come home.  I 
went back to Atlanta, to Charleston and Savannah, 
looking for you. I-" He stopped when his voice broke, 
and struggled to regain control. "I had to find you.  
Everything else, I could bear, but not losing you."
  
"You met Dana."
  
"Yes, and I met Dana.  If you want to be angry with 
someone about that, please be angry with me.  Not 
her.  She's trying so hard to be your friend."
  
Sam gnawed his lower lip uncertainly. 
  
"She likes you, Sammy.  She wants you here as much as 
I do."

"There's no place for me here," his son said matter-
of-factly.  
  
"There is. There always has been a place, and there 
always will be. How can you possibly think that?"

Another shrug.  After a few seconds, without 
answering, Sam got up and went upstairs, leaving his 
teacup on the table.  As Mulder listened, he heard 
Sam go, not to bed, but to the nursery.  The crib 
rails squeaked as he picked up Emily, then the 
rocking chair scooted across the wooden floor to the 
window.  
  
When Mulder checked later, Emily was asleep in Sam's 
arms, and Sam was asleep in the rocking chair with 
his feet propped on the window seat. Mulder took 
Emily, then whispered for Sam to go to bed, which he 
did without really waking, just like he had when he 
was five.  Amazing Grace looked up, debating between 
guarding Emily and guarding Sam, and waddled after 
his boy.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
It took a little more effort for Dana to roll over, 
but she did, and found him sitting on the edge of the 
bed, holding a cup of tepid tea and staring at her.
 
"What is it?" she asked, scooting up on the pillows. 
"What is wrong?"
  
"Nothing.  I was just checking on you," he whispered, 
setting the teacup down and putting his hand on her 
belly again. "Seeing if Harvey was awake.  I didn't 
mean to bother you.  Go back to sleep; you need to 
rest."
  
She stretched and then moved his palm so he could 
feel the hardness of a tiny head or bottom pressing 
against her skin.  
  
"Heaven forbid you 'bother' me.  I barely remember 
the last time we 'bothered' each other."
  
"Dana..." he mumbled sheepishly, stroking her 
abdomen.
  
"Actually I would settle for opening my eyes and 
having you on your side of the bed instead of on the 
sofa.  We can even draw a line down the center of the 
mattress and both be sure not to cross it." She 
tugged gently at the starched front of his tuxedo 
shirt. "Lie down.  I promise I will not tell anyone."
   
He grumbled but let her maneuver him down, pillowing 
his head on her chest and stretching his long legs 
out across the bed.
  
"What those women said at the theater tonight: it's 
not true.  Not about Poppy or anyone else.  I told 
you: I wouldn't have done that to Melly. Or Sam.  I 
would never have let either of them walk in and find 
me with another woman."
  
"I know," she murmured, toying with his hair.  It was 
nice - being close to her, being still with her.
  
"I wouldn't do that to you, either," he added a 
little belatedly. "It's not that there's someone 
else, just with the baby, with Sam here..."
  
"Mr. Frohike has offered to come over and fulfill 
your husbandly duties."
  
Mulder raised one eyebrow, looking up at her.
  
"I told him Thursday afternoons would be fine."
  
Her chest jiggled as she laughed, letting him know 
she was teasing.
  
"You are a wicked, wicked woman.  And I can hear your 
heart," he said softly, closing his eyes. "Sam said 
he isn't part of my life now, that he's just a 
leftover obligation who doesn't belong.  Dana, just 
when I think he's doing better, he announces 
something like that, and I never know what to say to 
him.  It's like trying to navigate by a compass that 
randomly points every direction except north."
  
"Be patient.  You want him to heal faster than he is 
able to, and he tries to pretend to please you."
  
"Why would he do that?"
  
"Because he idolizes you.  Dense, Mr. Mulder.  You 
can be a little dense.  Sit up," she requested, then 
rubbed her hand over her belly, resting her palm 
against one side. "Here.  Put your ear here."
  
"Why?"
  
"Just listen," she whispered, and he laid his head 
where she indicated, wondering what in the world he 
was listening for. "Can you hear it yet? It should 
sound like mine, but faster and fainter."
  
Mulder narrowed his eyes in concentration, trying to 
filter out the sounds of the house and the street. He 
exhaled, then smiled and answered wondrously, "Yes.  
I can hear something.  It sounds like he's pounding 
on a little wet drum.  What is that?"
  
"His heart."
  
"That's his heart?"
  
She nodded, not interrupting as he listened.
  
"It's so fast."
  
"It is supposed to be fast."
  
"Who told you that?"
  
"My mother."
   
He listened for a long time, laying one arm along her 
body and looping one over her belly.  The sound of 
the baby was comforting, like the ocean.  
  
"I'm going to Boston in a few weeks," he said 
quietly. "To address the legislature before they 
nominate the new senators.  Spender is bucking to be 
nominated and I want to make sure he isn't.  I 
thought I'd take Sam with me. Maybe stop in New York 
for a bit, just the two of us. Spend some time 
together.  Will you and Emily be all right?"
  
"We will be fine. I think that would be good for you 
and Samuel.  You will be back, though, before the 
baby comes?"
  
"Of course.  Dana, would you like me to try to find 
your mother while we're in New York?"
  
"I would not know where to tell you to begin looking.  
I do not know if she is still in New York.  She does 
not speak English."
  
"I don't think it would be hard to find an Irish 
midwife in New York. She probably gets a widow's 
pension.  I could find her that way."
  
"I just- No, I do not think you could find her, but 
thank you for offering," she said politely.
  
"You sound as though you don't even want me to try."  
"No, I would rather you did not try."
  
"Tell me why," he requested. 
  
"No," she said firmly.
  
He raised his head, frowning at her. "No?  I would 
like a little more explanation than that."
  
She set her jaw, ignoring him.
  
"Dana, I asked you a question." 
  
That was the tone that made Melly's lower lip 
tremble, but Dana continued studiously ignoring him.
  
  *~*~*~* 
  
Unlike Samuel, before Mulder interrupted his parents, 
he knocked.  And, fifteen minutes after everyone had 
retired for the night, he was fairly sure what he was 
interrupting, which only added to his embarrassment.
  
"Mother, Melly wants you," he called, feeling foolish 
standing in the hotel hallway with his shirt open and 
his trousers barely buttoned.  He smoothed his hair 
and fastened his clothes, tucking in his shirt.
  
The bed creaked, and his father's voice answered, 
"Can it wait a few minutes, Fox?"
  
"She's upset.  She wants Mother."
  
He wasn't supposed to hear his father's frustrated 
whisper: "Well, she's not the only one.  Dear, will 
you please wean these children?"
  
"Hush," his mother responded, then louder, "I'm 
coming.  Tell her just a minute, Fox."
  
He shuffled back across the hall to convey the 
message. "Mother says just a minute," he mumbled to 
Melly, who had the sheets pulled up to her chin and 
was watching him with terrified brown eyes. "Oh, 
would you stop that, honey?  For God's sake, I'm not 
going to hurt you.  You're my wife and you're acting 
like we're complete strangers."
  
"Go 'way!"
  
"I am away," he snapped. "If you don't want me to 
touch you, I certainly won't!"
  
"I don't like you!  You're not a nice man."
  
"Stop it!  Stop that baby voice.  You're-"
  
He was interrupted by a soft knock on the door, which 
he opened to find his mother wearing her dressing 
gown and a less-than-enthusiastic expression.
  
"What happened?" she asked, looking from her son to 
the rumpled bed and back again. "Fox, shouldn't your 
father handle this?"
  
"Nothing happened. She's just upset. She started 
crying and wouldn't calm down until I said I'd get 
you."
  
"Did you do something to upset her?"
  
"No," he insisted self-righteously. "Of course I 
didn't."
  
"Well, I have her," his mother said uncertainly, 
sitting on the bed. Melissa scooted toward her, still 
glaring at Mulder. "You go talk to your father."
  
"I'm eighteen years old.  It's a little late to have 
that talk with my father," he muttered under his 
breath, stalking out.  
  
He made a few laps up and down the hall, cooling off.  
His first impulse was to say 'the hell with it' and 
walk back to his room at Harvard, but that wasn't 
practical since he wasn't wearing shoes. Eventually, 
once his pride had healed a little, he shoved his 
fists in his pockets and wandered to the room beside 
his parents' suite.
  
"What happened?" Poppy asked, and he quickly averted 
his eyes.  
  
The bodice of her dress was open, and she was laying 
on the bed with Sam, who had one hand on her bare 
breast as he nursed.  Poppy had been born on a 
plantation, where she'd been considered a valuable 
addition to the livestock.  Her job was to nurse Sam, 
and covering up, in the south, would have been 
considered an uppity pretension of modesty.  No one 
cared if the cows were naked or looked away as the 
mares were bred. Mulder, however, had been raised 
with white servants, and thought of breasts, light or 
dark, as breasts.
  
"Fox, what happened?"
  
"Nothing," he answered honestly, blowing out the lamp 
so he couldn't really see her and slouching in a 
chair beside the bed. 
  
He stared out the window, listening to the sound of 
Sam's mouth against her nipple.  The sucking slowed, 
then stopped and switched to soft little snores as 
the toddler fell asleep.
  
"All the doctors keep saying she's better," he said, 
thinking aloud. "She was fine at dinner.  She ate.  
She was even laughing." He exhaled, slouched a little 
lower, and asked, "Does she love me, Poppy?"
  
"Does Miss Melissa love you?  I couldn't say," she 
answered, playing dumb. 
  
"Oh, of course you can say.  You'd know better than 
anyone else.  She says she does, but - was it just 
because of..." He nodded toward Sam. "We haven't even 
been married for two years.  Is it just that she 
doesn't love me?"   
  
"I think she loves you.  She's been looking forward 
to seeing you."  
  
"Then what am I doing wrong?" 
  
He didn't need to elaborate.  The fact that he'd 
obviously undressed, hurriedly dressed again, and was 
anywhere besides in bed with his beautiful young wife 
at ten o'clock at night was explanation enough.
  
She considered, then answered, "She's a lady. Ladies 
don't think of those things the way men do.  Men or 
gentlemen, it's the same, but not women and ladies.  
Folks say ladies don't even feel the need at all."
  
Mulder glanced at her warily, listening.  It was the 
first time he'd ever, even in the most roundabout 
way, discussed marital relations with a woman.  From 
what the gossips whispered, Poppy was plenty   
knowledgeable on the subject.  Several married 
gentlemen had strayed across her path, lavishing 
gifts and complements until the affair cooled and 
they drifted away again, ashamed of themselves.
  
"You wanting a baby, Fox?"
  
"No," he answered quickly.  The last thing he wanted 
was for Melly to conceive again.
  
"She's a lady, and she's your wife.  It's not nice to 
bother Miss Melissa just for sport.
  
"I guess that makes sense," he mumbled, although it 
really didn't.  His mother was a lady, but he'd never 
known his father to 'bother' another woman.
  
Poppy covered Sam and sat up, swinging her legs over 
the side of the bed, the front of her dress still 
open.  When he turned his head, she pulled her dress 
together. 
  
"I didn't mean to embarrass you."
  
"I'm not embarrassed," he lied, his face suddenly 
hot. "I was just thinking about what you said."
  
In the darkness, she seemed very close to him, and 
very warm.  Instead of French perfume, she smelled of 
every-day things: lye soap and baked apples and 
cotton.  Like his father, she smelled like home - of 
being fifteen again and thinking life was fair and 
would work out exactly the way he'd planned it.
  
"You are embarrassed.  You're red." She put her cool 
hand on his cheek, stroking. "Silly boy."
  
"It's hot in here."
  
"Take off your shirt, if you're going to stay.  It 
needs to be warm for the baby."
  
He fumbled to comply, but then decided that might not 
be the best idea. He'd grown up with Poppy, and she 
was his friend, but it was easy to see why she had 
more than her share of admirers.
  
"I will help," she offered. "Help you get undressed 
and lay down.  You like that?"
  
"Really, I'm fine," he said nervously, his voice 
breaking. 

She leaned closer, whispering in his ear. "I could 
tell you what women want? Would you like that?"

He bit his lip hard, nodding, and felt her mouth 
moving down his jaw to his throat, like a vampire 
approaching a victim. 
  
"Or you want me to show you?" she whispered, her 
breath hot against his skin.
  
The hair on the back of his neck stood at attention, 
and his body forgot how to do anything that required 
planning, including moving.  He felt boneless, as 
though she could mold him any way she pleased.  Her 
hand moved down his chest, over his stomach, then to 
his groin, cupping, and then squeezing gently.  He 
moaned and opened his eyes, briefly focusing on Sammy 
asleep behind Poppy before he closed them again.
  
"You ever really been with Melissa?" she murmured to 
him, urging him down to her breasts.  He unbuttoned 
the few buttons she'd fastened on her calico dress, 
and cupped them in his hands, pushing the soft, heavy 
weight upward. "You ain't. You never been with any 
woman."
  
He shook his head that he had.  Not since Samuel had 
come, but four times between the wedding and when 
he'd left for Harvard two weeks later.  Five times, 
counting Samuel's conception.  Six, if he counted the 
aborted attempt tonight.   
  
"You have?" Poppy asked, pulling back.
  
"Of course I have," he answered breathlessly, then 
kissed her, penetrating deep into her mouth with his 
tongue.  
  
Poppy pulled back and guessed, "Some shop girl?"
  
"Don't be silly," he answered, not wanting to talk 
anymore.  He could feel her nipples against his 
palms, her skin soft against his.  With increasing 
urgency, he pulled the white kerchief off her head, 
letting her long, black hair fall over her shoulders.  
She always kept it covered, but she had hair exactly 
like Melly and Sarah's.  She looked so much like them 
that he could easily pretend she was either.
  
Sarah.  He wanted Sarah.
  
"Come here," he said huskily, pulling her off the bed 
and lowering her to the floor.  There were no more 
thoughts, not really.  His instincts were taking 
over, sweeping him along like a raging river.  This 
was what he'd wanted, what he'd imagined lovemaking 
would be like with Sarah, but never gotten the chance 
to experience.
  
It was wrong - with Poppy - and he knew it was wrong, 
but that didn't make him pull away.  In the darkness, 
he let his imagination and base nature take over, 
giving himself permission, just once, to pretend what 
should have been.
  
"Fox, slow down.  I don't think-" Poppy started 
uncertainly, her accent sounding like cotton fields 
rather than old southern money and spoiling his 
fantasy. "Please."
  
"Don't talk," he requested, stroking her hair as he 
lowered his mouth to her breast.
  
Poppy raised her arms, pushing him away and telling 
him to stop.
  
As soon as she did, the erotic spell broke and became 
gut-wrenching disgust with himself. This woman wasn't 
his wife, and she didn't want him.  She was his son's 
nursemaid, and he was forcing himself on her on the 
floor beside his son's bed.  He opened his mouth to 
apologize, still on top of her, but of course, at 
that moment, his father opened the bedroom door.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
Mulder woke to the slow, haunting guitar notes 
lilting down the hall and making their way into his 
dreams.
  
"How long has he been playing?" he whispered to Dana, 
scooting up so his head was beside hers on the 
pillow.  It was still dark outside, with no hint of 
dawn approaching.  Three, maybe four in the morning, 
but not an unusual time to discover Sam was awake and 
roaming the house.
  
"A few minutes."
  
He stretched, then wrapped his arm around her, 
listening. "Air on a G String," he said quietly, 
recognizing the sad melody.  Sam wasn't so much 
playing as he was letting his fingers caress the 
strings. "Bach. It was one of Melly's favorites."
  
At the other end of the hall, a door opened, and bare 
feet made their way to the top of the stairs.  Mulder 
heard Poppy say something and Samuel respond 
affirmatively, then a floorboard creak as she sat 
down on the step.  Without hesitation, the guitar 
notes slid from Bach into the easy rhythm a Negro 
spiritual, and, after a few seconds, Poppy's pretty 
mezzo-soprano joined Sam's smooth voice.
  
"He's a tenor," Mulder whispered, still curled up to 
Dana, one hand on her belly.
  
"A beautiful tenor," she responded.
  
"The last time I heard him sing, he was a treble.  
Before his voice changed.  Before the war.  He used 
to sing in the boys' choir."
  
He and Dana lay in the darkness, listening to Sam's 
fingers dancing over the strings and his and Poppy's 
voices singing softly.
  
"I should get up," Mulder decided, since he was the 
father and knew the right thing to do. "Talk to him."
  
"Stay here," Dana answered softly, covering his hand 
with hers on her belly. "He is talking; we do not 
speak this language."
  
She was right, but that didn't make him feel any 
better.
  
"I'm glad Poppy's with him, then," he commented.
  
In the distance, a train whistle pierced the night.  
He curled closer to Dana, pulled the covers higher, 
and then rested his hand on her belly. Dana put her 
hand on top of his again, making small circles with 
her thumb, soothing him as they listened.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
"You don't remember being here?" Mulder asked as Sam 
looked around the observatory. "Not just in here, but 
being at Harvard at all?  You don't remember me 
carrying you around the yard on my shoulders?  You 
and Byers making a tent out of the blankets in our 
room?  You don't remember getting sick after my 
graduation and vomiting all over the Dean?"
  
"No," his son said, shrugging one shoulder, which was 
an improvement over shrugging both shoulders.
  
"Well, I guess you might not.  You were barely three 
when I graduated. I promise you've been here, though.  
Many times.  You were an expert rail-rider before you 
were out of diapers." 
  
Samuel examined the fifteen-inch telescope, climbing 
into the metal chair and squinting through the 
eyepiece. "Was this here?" he asked, showing the 
first glimmer of interest Mulder had seen in days.
  
"It was.  I tried to show you the rings of Saturn one 
night, but you were too little to understand."  
  
"I wish I could see them now," he answered. "But it 
has to be dark, doesn't it?"
  
"Yes, and we have a train to catch in a little bit. 
We'll come back."
  
"After the baby comes.  When Dana can come with us.  
She would like this.  She likes scientific things."
  
"Yes, she does," Mulder answered, surprised his son 
had noticed. "This observatory is called the Dana 
House."
  
"After her?"
  
"No, not after her.  She wasn't even born when the 
house was built.  Neither was I.  The University 
added the observatory and the telescope later.  The 
Dana family owned the house, originally.  Probably no 
relation."
  
"Oh," Sam answered, and twisted his mouth sheepishly.
  
"Do you think you would like to live in Boston?  If 
you decide against West Point, you could go to 
Harvard and still be close to home." 
  
"What about the London Music Conservatory?
  
"Or you could do that.  You still have plenty of time 
to decide." 
  
Mulder felt a chill go down his spine as Bill Mulder 
rolled over in his grave: his grandson attending a 
music conservatory.
  
He held the door, then followed Sam to the porch. 
They stood on the front steps, watching the students 
pass, leaning their bodies into the cold November 
wind. If Dana liked snow, she'd certainly get enough 
of it in Massachusetts. 
  
"If I accept the nomination, we'd have to move.  Not 
just come up for a month in the summer but actually 
have a residence.  Byers could run the paper for me 
and we could keep the house in DC, but a senator has 
to live primarily in the state he represents.  Your 
grandparents still have that big house in Boston 
that's doing nothing except accruing dust and taxes.  
How do you feel about living there?"
  
Sam shoved his hands into his coat pockets, hunching 
his shoulders. "I didn't think you wanted to be a 
senator."
  
"I didn't.  I still don't, really.  That wasn't the 
point of me addressing the legislature, but now that 
it's been offered... I know I'm not corrupt.  I know 
I'd do a good job. I'd try, at least, and at least 
I'm not Spender.  But Spender doesn't have a baby 
coming in six weeks," Mulder said, thinking aloud.
  
His son looked up, puzzled.
  
"If I accept, I'd have to be Massachusetts by January 
first.  Dana can't travel right now, but I'd have to 
be living here when the legislature appoints me. 
Which means I'd either have to leave DC right after 
the baby comes, or, if he's late, I wouldn't be there 
at all.  I don't like either of those possibilities."
  
He inhaled, the cold air stinging the inside of his 
nose and the back of his throat.
  
"I don't know how Dana would feel about all the 
dinners and galas and hoopla that come with being a 
senator's wife.  I'd rather be tortured by the 
Spanish Inquisition, so I can only imagine what 
Dana's reaction would be.  And there's you.  I grew 
up with everyone in America knowing who my father 
was.  Not that it was bad, but... As soon as I said 
my last name, people had expectations, and if I 
didn't live up to their expectations, they acted like 
I'd failed them.  They still do, and I don't want it 
to be like that for you."
  
"It already is, sir," Sam answered softly.
  
Mulder, unsure how to respond, considered those words 
for a few seconds, then wrapped his scarf tighter 
around his neck and ducked his head against the wind 
as he descended the wooden stairs.  Sam fell in step 
beside him, crunching across the frozen yard and not 
speaking again until they'd turned toward the hotel.  
   
"Grandfather would be proud of you.  If you decided 
to accept, he'd be very proud," his son finally said.
  
"I know that, Sammy."
  
  *~*~*~*

It took an omnibus, a cab, and a white lie to Sam in 
order to reach Trinity Church, and ten minutes of 
searching before he found the gravestone. It was a 
wealthy church, attended by New York's most prominent 
families, and so the graveyard was filled with 
markers for congressmen, war heroes, and captains of 
industry. Alexander Hamilton was buried there. There 
was Robert Fulton, who had designed the first 
successful steam boat and working submarine. John 
Peter Zenger was there: the newspaper publisher whose 
trial had germinated the right to freedom of speech 
in America. 

Alone on the graveyard, Mulder wiped the snow off the 
ornate headstone so he could make out the lettering. 
It just said 'Wife.' Not even 'Anne.' Engraved on the 
right side of the stone was her husband's name and 
age, and a few lines of scripture, but on the right 
the marker just read 'wife.' There was no date of 
death, but it had been the same as her husband's. 
She'd been twenty-four-years old, and already 
forgotten to history except for being a wealthy man's 
young wife.

He stared at the stone for a few minutes, and then 
placed the bouquet of hothouse flowers on the graves, 
dead-center between the two, as if he was a business 
acquaintance paying his respects to both of them. 

"Another time," he promised softly, his voice still 
sounding too loud in the silent cemetery. "Another 
life." If there was ever a second chance, he would 
act differently. There would not be, though. Some 
souls were fated to meet, no matter how much they 
blundered about. Others - their paths crossed only 
randomly, when both had strayed far from where Fate 
intended them to be. There was only that one chance 
in a thousand lifetimes in the vastness of the 
universe - and it never came again. It wasn't 
Destiny, but resilience in the antithesis of it.

Like many things, it was knowledge that came only in 
hindsight: it was impossible to know the rarity of 
what he'd had until he'd lost it. 

"I am sorry," he told the grave, years too late. 

It was getting dark, and he'd promised Samuel he'd be 
back for supper at the hotel. 'Just a quick trip to 
see an old friend,' he'd said.

  *~*~*~*