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 maid 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.  Another maid 
- the one Sam had kissed - 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 young 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.  Another maid had a question about the 
grocery list, 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 other maid 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.
  
"No, Sam - don't. I am fine," Dana said angrily. "I 
need an extra set of hands, not a doctor.  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.  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, sounding like they were 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. Don't call me unless 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.  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.  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 for people. 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 happy to just 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.  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. 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 you, '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 
disdain.
  
"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.  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.
  
"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.  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 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.  Miss Melly's kin or not, 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. "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- Not right now.  I don't think this 
is a good idea," he said, 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 flier. "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: 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.  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 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, tense 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?" his son 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."
  
The snowdrifts now 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. 
"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 insane 
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."  
   
"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 fine.  Go to your bedroom and change 
your clothes, and I'll meet you back here in a few 
minutes.  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 walked tiredly 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 nightstand 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