Title: Forgive Us Our Trespasses
Author: Taffy Northwood
E-Mail: taffyxf@yahoo.com
Rating:  NC17 (eventually)
Category:  AU, MSR  
Archives:  Just ask.  
Feedback: Never in bad taste <g>
Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, Skinner and any 
other XF characters are on loan only.  
Summary:  In 1909 New York City, there were two 
distinct and separate worlds: that of the very wealthy 
and that of the very poor.  Could love bridge the 
great divide between those worlds for two star-crossed 
lovers?
Author Notes: Like a huge part of the fandom, I've
become absolutely dotty over AU fic.  This is my 
modest attempt to put Mulder and Scully into another
time and place.  Please be aware, this is a 
work-in-progress. 



Forgive Us Our Trespasses - Mathew Fox's story part 1

New York City - 1909


The slum is the measure of civilization  - Jacob Riis 

Even in the most abject poverty, children play, their 
voices raised in excitement.  They have no toys save 
the things other people cast off, fragments of brick,
bits of wood, scraps of rag.  

Fox raised his camera, carefully framing the children
in the shot.  The ruddy-faced boy with the stick in his 
hands would be the central figure, but Fox wanted the 
to get the ragged girls on the stoop in the shot as well.

A dark-haired boy held the "ball" aloft, tightly-wrapped 
rags around a stone.  He wound up the pitch and Fox 
depressed the button on his pocket Kodak.

"What yer doin', Mister?" 

The boy stood on the sidelines of the game, his legs 
badly bowed by rickets.   Fox had captured this child 
in the picture too.  In fact, though the batter was
the central figure, this boy was the focus.

"I'm taking your photograph," Fox replied.  
 
"Ain't that somethin'!"  

Fox smiled.  His subjects were not always so easy to
impress.  On the piers and up in the Sixth Ward he
usually resorted to his clumsy but discreet Scovill
camera.

"I'll bring you a picture next time I'm here," he
promised.
 
"Golly, thanks, Mister," the boy said.

"What's your name?"  *Boy on Clinton Street, New York
City, 1909* would do, but Fox preferred to know names.
 
"Benny Pinsker.  What's your name?"
 
It sounded more like, "Whatcher name," but Fox's ear
had gradually become tuned to the argot.

"Mathew Fox."

When he first stumbled onto this exotic pocket of New
York, Fox had been overwhelmed by the noise and
stench.  Since then he'd gained a fascination for the
languages, the foods, the people themselves.  He
strolled the teeming streets, camera at the ready.  He
watched, he listened, and most of the time he was
ignored.

In a narrow alley a girl was pulling laundry from a
clothesline and bundling it into a basket.  He wondered
if she was a laundress but quickly abandoned that 
thought.  Laundresses were never as fresh and lithe as
this girl.  Hot water and lye aged them early, scrubbing 
gave the women enormous forearms and blistered red skin.  
This girl's hands were delicate, her arms slender.  

Daylight was fading, but Fox unfolded his camera and 
checked the view.  

There's an element of chance in photography.  You
don't always capture what you want, and sometimes you
catch what you didn't see at all. The girl wore a
plain white shirtwaist and a trim blue skirt.  He  
watched as she struggled to fold the sheets into halves,
then quarters, then eighths before she piled them into
her basket.  He clicked the shutter, and then wound
the film forward for another shot.

Perhaps one of these would come out.  He'd learned a
few tricks in the darkroom and he hoped for the best.
Sadly, her best feature would be lost in the photograph.
The shining auburn hair piled atop her head would be 
boring gray.

But now the girl turned to face him, and he lowered
his camera at her approach.   
 
"I beg your pardon.  I only wanted to take your
photograph," he said.

"You might have asked me first," she said.  "Do you
always go about taking people's photographs without
their permission?"  She held the basket against her
hip, leaning a bit to counter the weight.

"Yes," he answered, too surprised to lie.  The people
he'd encountered in this neighborhood were rarely so 
well spoken.  Her voice was melodic; he picked up the 
slightest lilt hinting at an Irish birth.  

"How rude," she pronounced.  Good heavens, she was
beautiful.  Her skin was creamy white, the cheeks 
pinkened by exertion.  It was her eyes that left him
almost speechless, so blue and clear a man could 
almost swim in them.  

"Please forgive me, and let me explain.  I'm not
trying to make portraits for a gallery.  I want real
photos of people doing the things they do."

"And so you skulk about like a thief," she said.

She wasn't angry.  She sounded like a tutor correcting
a backward pupil.

"Please accept my apology," he said.  

She nodded and started up the steps of the stoop.

He watched her balance the basket against the door
until she could open it, then watched her disappear
inside.

He should have offered her a print, he thought.  He
should have offered to carry the basket.  

Twilight was approaching and now the streets were
filled with men and women, boys and girls, returning
from the factories.  Barely time to stop in at
Penazek's grocery store before he headed home.

Fresh ground coffee scented the air in the grocery 
and Fox took a moment to inhale and enjoy.  Penazek 
nodded at him from behind the long, cluttered counter
as he turned the handle of the large brass coffee 
grinder.  A little girl stood on a milk box, dusting 
cans of pickled beets and evaporated milk.

"Mr. Fox the photograph man!"   

"Hello, Anna!  You're more beautiful than ever!"

Little Anna was always happy to see him or to pose for
him.  Her father grunted a greeting. 

"I know what you want," she said.

"Then you must be a very smart little girl," he said.

"But you always buy the same thing!" she crowed.  

Penazek was already measuring a scoop of roasted
sunflower seeds into a paper bag.  Fox placed a penny
on the counter.

"Show me the picture again," Anna begged.  

Penazek gave her a little frown and shook his head.

"It's all right," Fox said.  The photo was worn and
bent, although he always treated it with care.  

He'd taken the photograph himself five years ago.  
Unlike his current subjects, the young girl in this
picture was dressed in ruffles, her dark, curly 
hair tied up with ribbons.  

"Samantha, the beautiful lost girl.  Maybe she's
locked in a dungeon, or under a spell," Anna said.

If only this was a fairytale, Fox thought.

"Maybe she is," he said as he slipped the snapshot
back in his pocket.

"Don't be sad.  One day you'll find her," Anna said.

"Perhaps, one day," he said, softly.  "So, young lady,
how is school?" 

"Very good.  I'm the only one in the whole class
who can do the seven timeses.  Want to hear me?  Seven
times one is seven, seven times two is fourteen--"

"Anna," Mr. Penezek interrupted as he bagged a 
customer's purchase.  "You bother Mr. Fox too much.  
Your mama will be wanting help to make the supper."

Fox glanced at the clock behind the counter and 
realized the afternoon was all but gone and he needed
to get home.  

He bid the Penazeks farewell and left the store.  Fox
knew he should catch the streetcar in the interest of
time, but he enjoyed walking.  The paper bag crinkled
as he reached in for a sunflower seed.  

Less than five miles separated Clinton Street and 
Fifth Avenue, but it might as well have been a thousand.
As he walked down Houston Street, the sights, sounds and 
smells changed with every block he walked as the Jewish
neighborhood gave over to the Italian.  
 
Gone were the pushcarts as he moved uptown. The streets 
were lined with elegant shops--milliners, florists, 
stationers.  Smartly dressed patrons moved between the
stores like bees around flowers.  Business men exited
the great stone buildings and walked purposefully on
their way home.

Fox smiled as he spotted the Flatiron building above
the rooftops and trees.   A marvel of architecture, the 
triangular building still amazed him every time he saw 
it.  

A voice rang out above the din of horse hooves, cart 
wheels and motor cars.

"Paper!  Paper!  Getcher evening paper here!  Get
the World for just one penny!"

From his vantage point across the street, Fox pulled
out his camera.  He usually restricted his photographs
to the poorer sections of the city, but he couldn't
resist an interesting shot.  Against the background
of the miracle of modern construction, the newsboy
seemed dwarfed.  

The boy looked familiar, and Fox realized he'd seen 
him around Clinton Street playing with the other 
children.  Then as now, the kid wore a battered old
fisherman's cap.   It covered his head down to his
ears, giving him a raffish look.  

The streetlights had turned on against the gray
twilight, and the boy stood silhouetted against the
modern glass entrance with its warm-toned electric
light.  Fox waited until the boy's arm was aloft, 
newspaper waving before he snapped the picture.

Pocketing his camera, Fox crossed the street and
approached the boy.  

"Keep the change," he said, tossing the kid a quarter.

"Thanks, Mister," he gulped, surprised by such a bounty 
from the shabbily dressed man.  Fox tucked the evening 
news under his arm and waved goodbye to the still stunned 
child and headed down Fifth Avenue.

Fox shook his head as he walked.  He'd given in to the 
urge to be generous, but he needed to be more careful 
in order to maintain his disguise.

Finally, he arrived at the imposing brownstone he
called home.  Six stories tall, the townhouse had
been designed by C.P.H. Gilbert.  It wasn't the
largest mansion on Fifth Avenue, certainly not by
comparison to houses of the Vanderbilts, but it was
elegant.

Fox bypassed the steps leading to the front door, he
slipped in through the servant's entrance.   Taking
the stairs two at a time, he raced up the three floors.  
He kept a careful eye out lest he be spotted sneaking
up the backstairs.

Luck was with him, and he arrived, undetected.  Fox
pushed open the door. 

"Mathew Fox--and late as usual."

"Quiet, Skinner!"

"Oh, I quite forgot.  You're really Fox Mulder, and if
your mother learns about your forays into the
demimonde, you'll be a very sorry Fox Mulder."

Fox set his jaw but didn't dare argue.  Technically
Mr. Skinner was his personal secretary, but in fact he
was part friend, part co-conspirator, and part martinet.  
As Fox's former tutor, Skinner was under the unfortunate 
misconception that Fox was still his charge.  Try as he 
might, Fox had been unable to disabuse him of this notion.

Fox shrugged out of the peacoat he wore on his photographic
excursions, mainly because the deep pockets easily 
concealed his cameras.

"I'll just take this coat and burn it."  

"Very funny," Fox replied.  He watched Skinner hold the 
coat at arms length as he carried it to the dressing 
room.  Hidden behind the elegant suits, starched shirts 
and polished shoes was a small cache of shabby trousers 
and shirts.  It was important that the subjects of his 
pictures didn't see Fox as an outsider.

"I'll draw you a bath," Skinner said, wrinkling his nose.

"There isn't time.  I'll be late for dinner."

"You'd best make time," Skinner said.  "Your mother will
faint dead away if she stands downwind of you."

"Well then, you're wasting valuable time insulting me."

"Did you get any good shots?" Skinner called out over
the rush of the water as the tub filled.  

"A few.  I want you to take the film over to Langly
later.  He'll do a better job of developing them than
I will.  One in particular may be...special."

Skinner nodded, his gaze shrewd.  "What are you up to,
Mulder?" he asked.  

Fox smiled, but didn't answer.  To be honest, he didn't
think he could explain what about the girl had captured 
his attention.  She was beautiful, without question, 
but beautiful women could be as dull as dust.  There had 
been something special about this girl--a spark, 
a force, a strength.

Skinner left him to his bath, taking the camera with
him.  He'd carefully remove the film for processing as
Fox had taught him.  At 34, Walter Skinner was eight years 
older than Fox.  He'd seen Fox through myriad adventures
and more than a few scrapes.  Skinner kept his life in 
order, and more importantly, kept Fox Mulder's secrets.   

Fox stripped out of his clothes and stepped into the
bathtub, groaning happily as he sank into the hot water.  
His father had spared no expense in building the house.  
Fox's suite consisted of a bedroom, dressing room, 
private bath, and sitting room.  
  
Samantha's rooms were across the hall, all decked out
in pale blue and cream, untouched since the day she left.  

His sister had been gone for four years and he still
dreamed of opening the door to her room and to find
her calmly brushing her hair at her dressing table.

Samantha had been a beautiful child and hence  
indulged in every way.  The entire population of New 
York City had adored her.  Fox had been just another of 
her devoted slaves.  Luckily, Samantha was sweet-natured,
so any spoilage was of the most charming variety.

By the time she was sixteen, Samantha was an extraordinary
beauty.  She began to attend balls and parties and was
attracting more than a few suitors.  Fox had been in 
London on an extended assignment for the family business, 
but he and Samantha had kept in touch by letter.

Fox still had her letters, tied up with a blue ribbon
in his trunk.  At first, they were full of the excitement 
of being allowed at long last to go to dances.  She was, 
of course, the "belle of the ball."  Soon, however, 
unhappiness started to creep into the letters.

A certain German Baron began to call on Samantha.  Mother
and Father were very much in favor of the match.  New York
society was extremely insular and not terribly old.  No 
matter how many airs the wealthy put on, they were painfully 
aware that the uncouth upstarts who made the fortunes were 
only a couple of generations back.  Making a brilliant marriage 
was the most important thing an heiress could do and a 
European title trumped any other family alliance for sheer 
clout.
 
Samantha was miserable.  The Baron was 45, fat and had 
horrible breath.  Her letters became more and more frantic.

"Please come home, Fox," she wrote.  "I don't know what
I'll do if Mother and Father insist on the Baron."  

It broke Fox's heart to be so far away.  Like most society
children, Fox and Samantha grew up with very little parental
contact.  Mother and Father had been happy to relegate their
children to the care of nannies and tutors and the finest
boarding schools on the Eastern Seaboard.  Emotionally, the
children had only each other.  Fox had been Samantha's 
protector and, in return, she had idolized him.

Fox booked passage on the first steamer back to New York.
When his father heard Fox was leaving his first assignment
against orders, he sent a blistering cable.  By leaving his
post, Fox was letting emotion get in the way of business, 
an unforgivable sin in the Mulder family.  Fox left England
anyway.

But Samantha was gone before his ship made port.  She'd left 
in the night with the help of one of the footmen.  Mother and 
Father chose to handle her disappearance privately
and had not called in the police.  Instead, they hired a
private investigator who determined that Samantha and 
Sean Pendrell, the young footman, had slipped out of the
house and vanished into the New York City tenements.

Their parents paid the investigator and seemed resigned to 
the loss of their daughter.  It was almost too much to imagine,
but sometimes it seemed to Fox as if Samantha was no longer 
marketable and thus not worth his parents' further 
effort.  

Fox would not give up, however, but without his parents' 
support, he had to find his own way to search for her.  
Though they were mere blocks away, the tenements might as
well have been a foreign country.

As a wealthy young person, Fox had no direct experience with 
the poor.  His only point of reference had been a popular 
expose  by the journalist Jacob Riis.  A photographer, Riis 
had documented the lives of the poor and taken the well-to-do 
to task for conditions in the slums.  The book had not been
without impact--reforms had improved conditions to an extent.

Fox poured over the book and an idea began to take shape in
his mind.  When he was ten years old, a friend of the family 
had given him a Blair Hawk-eye Camera.  Fox spent many happy 
hours in the park taking photographs and had become quite good.  

Fox Mulder's second life, that of slum photographer, took
shape.  Dressed in a common man's clothing, he made his way 
through the streets, taking pictures and asking if anyone had 
seen Samantha.  Though there were sightings of an out-of-place 
pretty, dark-haired girl, his sister remained tantalizingly 
beyond reach.   

What had begun as a means to and end--finding his sister--had 
become a vocation.  Fox admired Riis' work greatly, but 
sometimes it seemed as if Riis had lost sight of the people 
in his desire to chronicle their living conditions.  Fox wanted 
his photographs to show the humanity of the poor.    

Ultimately when it became necessary to adopt a name for his 
alter ego, he chose to honor a different photographer, Mathew 
Brady, whose work had brought the horrors of the Civil War
into comfortable homes far removed from the fighting. 
Mathew Brady, who had died in poverty, as Mr. Skinner 
frequently reminded him.

A sharp rap at the door startled Fox out of his reflection.

"Hurry up, Mulder.  It's quarter past seven," Skinner called
through the door.

"You worry too much," Fox shot back.  Skinner was right, 
however.  He was to accompany his parents to a dinner party 
and they would not be amused by his tardiness.

Rising from the tub, Fox dried himself briskly with a turkish
towel.  He wrapped the towel around his waist and walked into
the dressing room where his formal clothes hung, brushed and
ready.  He dressed quickly, calling Skinner in to help with 
the more complicated aspects.  

"I wonder what thin-lipped eligible heiress my mother has
on hand tonight," Fox said as he extended his wrists so Skinner 
could fasten the gold and diamond cufflinks.  "Some vapid young 
woman, no doubt, unable to discuss anything beyond the weather 
and the latest styles."

"I believe Mrs. Fowley is attending," Skinner replied.  He 
held the waistcoat out for Fox to shrug into.  "She's hardly
vapid, I should think.  And such a young widow..."

"Diana," Fox mused.  "She's certainly not dull."

His wing collar was already cutting into his neck.  It was
going to be a long, uncomfortable evening.  Skinner eased
him into the swallow-tail coat and surveyed him with a 
careful eye. 

"The maidens will swoon," Skinner said dryly.  

"You should take that act to vaudeville," Fox replied
as he exited in search of the rest of the family.  He found 
his mother in her sitting room.  

"You look lovely, Mother."  Teena Mulder wore blue satin
overlaid with silver lace, which did remarkable things
for her white hair.  

"Thank you, dear," she replied, rising from her chair.  
"I'm afraid your father is in high dudgeon tonight.  
You know he doesn't like to be kept waiting."

"Where is Father?" Fox asked.  

"I believe you'll find him pacing the foyer and grumbling
to himself."

Fox and his mother decended the main staircase to find
William Mulder exactly as his wife had predicted. 

"So glad you decided to grace us with your presence, Fox."

"Sorry, Father.  I lost track of time this afternoon."

William Mulder glared at his son.  For as long as Fox could
remember, his father had been almost impossible to please.  
Still, he could never stop trying to achieve that elusive
acceptance.

"The car is waiting, Sir," Edgar, the butler, said, entering
the room.  The family exited the house, decended the front
staircase and climbed into the horse-drawn carriage.  Teena 
did not approve of motorcars, believing them to be noisy and 
undignified.

"Where were you all afternoon, Fox," his mother asked.  

"Oh, just wandering about," he answered.  "Looking at
some pictures."

"At a gallery?" she asked.

"You might say that," he replied.

"Damn fool waste of time," William Mulder said.  "A business
doesn't run itself while you stroll around gazing at 
paintings and consorting with chorus girls.  You need to
take the work more seriously, Fox."

"Father, I do take the work seriously.  You said yourself
that I'm astute when it comes to choosing investments."

"That's not all it takes to succeed.  You can't just
drop in at the office now and then."

Further discussion would have to wait as they'd arrived
at the Schuyler home.  It was less than half a mile between
the two residences, but it wouldn't have done to walk.

The Schuylers had made their money in steamships and had
done it a generation or two before everyone else.  That
gave them a certain eminence in society.   Adele Schuyler
was considered the grande dame of the social scene, in
large part determining who was worthy of inclusion in 
the cloistered world.

The dinner party this evening was small and intimate--
only thirty or forty attendees.  According to Teena Mulder,
Mrs. Schuyler felt a calling to provide opportunities for
young people to meet and mingle.  She apparently believed 
it was her responsibility as a society leader to foster 
what she considered "suitable matches."

The Mulders were admitted into the marble and gilt foyer,
dominated by a magnificent curved staircase.  The foyer
and the adjacent rooms were ablaze with electric light.
Fox smiled, remembering how his mother harrumphed with
annoyance when Mrs. Schuyler had electric lights installed
in her home.  "They make everything look ugly and stark,"
she'd said.  Fox thought her biggest concern was how
much less flattering electric light was than candle or
gaslight.

The guests milled around the foyer and library, the ladies
in elegant gowns, adorned with their best jewels and the 
gentlemen in formal dress.  Now and then, laughter could
be heard above the conversation as someone told a joke.

Fox had suffered through many of these little soirees,
often feeling like a prized bull being brought to stud.
He wondered if the young ladies ever felt like cows being
paraded before the bull.  

"Young Fox, how are you tonight?"  His father's partner, 
Dewitt Traut, shook Fox's hand vigorously.  "I must say 
I was very impressed with the Willington Mill purchase 
you put together last week.  That was quite a triumph."

Of all his father's business contacts, Fox was was
fondest of Traut.  The man encouraged and supported Fox 
rather than criticizing.  Sometimes, Fox felt guilty for 
feeling closer to Traut than his own father.
 
"I hope you're still as enthusiastic next year.  It still
remains to be seen if the mill performs as well as we 
expect."

Fox had an uncanny talent for choosing businesses for his
father's firm to invest in.  Part intuition, part acumen,
and a good measure of luck had enabled Fox Mulder to 
assess manufacturing companies, coal mines or textile 
mills and determine how quickly they'd turn a profit, and
how the soundness of their customer base.  He was able
to read people, as if to divine the truth about them. 

"Well, Fox, are you ready to meet the fairest maidens
in all the land?" Traut asked, jovially as he noted the
approach of their hostess.

"Good evening, Dewitt, Fox," Adele Schuyler said, a 
dark-haired woman following in her wake.  "So glad you 
could join us this evening.  You remember my niece, 
Diana Fowley, don't you Fox?"

Mrs. Fowley was apparently the 'fairest maiden' du jour.

"Of course," Fox said, extending a hand.  "How are you
this evening?"

"I'm quite well, Mr. Mulder," Diana answered, her 
expression wry.  "And you?"

"I'm fine," Fox responded.  "Please call me Fox.  When
I hear 'Mr. Mulder,' I look about for my father."

Laughing, she replied, "I shall do so with pleasure, 
if you'll please call me Diana."

"Dinner is served."  Before Fox had a chance to respond, 
the Schuyler's butler sounded a small gong as he made the 
announcement.  The guests assembled as if choreographed.

Traut extended an arm to Mrs. Dewitt, leading her into 
her dining room.  Diana Fowley slipped a hand around 
Fox's elbow and they followed.  

Diana was tall and comely, if not a raving beauty.  Her
silk chiffon dress was dusty rose, complimented by a long
rope of pearls that looped around her neck several times
and disappeared into a rather spectacular decolletage.  
  
Standing so close, Fox noticed a tracing of tiny lines around 
her eyes.  His mother was right--the electric lights weren't 
kind to any woman over the age of twenty.  They proceeded into
the dining room, where the massive table was set with gleaming
china and fine crystal among low arrangements of white roses.

"Oh look, Fox," Diana said, wryly, as she pointed out their
place cards.  "We're dinner partners.  Aunt Adele is nothing 
if not subtle."

"I count myself quite fortunate," Fox said as he assisted
Diana with her chair.  
 
He *was* lucky, he thought.  Diana was a vivacious dinner
guest and a wonderful conversationalist.  Fox had been 
bored to tears by more than a few silly debutantes.  One
could only talk about the unseasonably warm weather for 
so long before one started eyeing the cutlery as possible
weapons.  

Diana Fowley had been born into old money and at eighteen,
married new money.  Her husband had been twenty years her 
senior, a man whose drinking had been out of control since
his teens.  Hirum Fowley had been good to Diana, though, by
all accounts and had left her a very rich widow when he 
died three years ago of liver disease.

Fox found himself enjoying the dinner immensely.  He realized
he was starving, having been so absorbed in taking photographs
that he'd forgotten to eat lunch.  The Schuyler's cook had
outdone herself and delicious course followed delicious course
before Fox was nearly groaning with satiety.  

After coffee and more socializing, guests began to call for
their carriages and leave.  Hastings, the Schuyler's butler
as well as their grooms and footmen were kept busy handing
the guests into their carriages and motor cars.

Mother and Father had called for their carriage, and Father
had come in search of Fox.  William Mulder had seemed
pleased to see Fox chatting with Diana in the music room.
At his entry into the room, the two young people looked
up.

"Oh dear," Diana said, glancing at the clock on the mantle.  
"I've completely lost track of time.  I must make my farewells 
to Aunt Adele."  

They moved into the foyer, meeting Teena Mulder who seemed
similarly happy to see Fox and Diana together.

"Shall I call for your carriage, Mrs. Fowley," Hastings asked.

"Actually, I was thinking of sending my driver home.  It's
such a lovely evening, I thought I might take some air," Diana
said, looking up at Fox.  "I do hate to impose on your
kindness, Fox, but would you mind walking me home?" 
 
"It would be delighted," Fox replied.  To be honest, after
the enormous meal, he rather looked forward to stretching
his legs.

Hastings left to deliver Diana's instructions to her driver, 
while a maid approached with a silver gray velvet cloak, lined
with the same dusty rose as her dress.  When Diana was warmly
ensconced, Fox offered his arm and they descended the front 
staircase onto the avenue.

The air was crisp and scented with roasting chestnuts from 
a street vendor.  Fox inhaled deeply.  

"I'm glad we decided to walk," she said, smiling.  "I can't
remember when I've enjoyed an evening more."

"I assure you, the pleasure was all mine."  

"I fear we have little prints all over our backs 
from Aunt Adele's dainty hands," she said, smiling.

"Actually, I think mine are courtesy of my dear mother," he
laughed. 

"Do you mind?" she asked, watching him through veiled lashes.

"Not at all," he replied.  And he really hadn't minded tonight.
His mother had pushed enough doe-eyed, empty-headed heiresses
from impeccable backgrounds at him.  Try as he might, he could
never picture himself marrying any of them.  Well, he could 
picture the wedding, but immediately afterword, he pictured 
himself throwing himself in front of the streetcar. 

They approached the white limestone mansion Fox recognized as 
the Fowley house and stopped at the wrought iron gate. 

"I must confess..." Diana paused and smiled mysteriously.  She 
held Fox's hand between both of hers. "I very much enjoyed some 
aspects of being married."

She stroked his hand, looking deep into his eyes.  There was 
no mistaking her meaning.  Diana was a woman who enjoyed the
pleasures of the flesh.  

His head was still reeling at her frankness.   He was at a
complete loss for words--not something Fox Mulder was used to.

Diana seemed as composed as if she'd just told him her favorite
color. 

"I've shocked you," she said.

"No...no, not at all," he replied.  

"Fox, I'm meeting some friends for dinner tomorrow evening
at Delmonicos.  I was wondering if you'd like to join me."

"I'm afraid I have a previous engagement tomorrow," he said, 
though it wasn't true.  "I do hope we will see each other
very soon, though."  

That part was true.  He liked Diana.  She was unlike the other
women in his orbit, but he wasn't quite ready to exchange one
yoke for another.  Still, if his parents were going to insist
that he take a wife, Diana would be far from dull.

"Ah well, maybe next time," Diana said.  She opened the gate
but before she could go through, she turned and pressed a 
lingering kiss against his lips.  "Good night, Fox."

*******************************
 
"I am a genius," Ringo Langly said.

"Unquestionably," Fox agreed heartily.  "May I see the
prints?"

Langly was a clever, inventive fellow, and only a
genius would have been able to find his way through
the apparatuses and chemicals of his cluttered shop,
but that was not the reason for Fox's ready praise. 
His eagerness to view once more the slender girl with
the Irish lilt made him generous with his words.

"I'll tell you how I did it--since I know you're not
smart enough to steal my techniques."

"Please do," Fox said, but he barely listened as
Langly described the process, instead thumbing through
the prints until he found the Irish girl.

"I should have asked her name," he said out loud.

Langly stopped his lecture and shrugged.

"Girl with basket," he said.

"I think she's a teacher," Fox mused.  "The way she
spoke... direct and clear."

Langly laughed.

"Not where I went to school, pal.  You're just hoping
she's a teacher because you're hoping she's not
married."

It was true that teachers were required to be
spinsters.  Even if this pretty girl had become a
teacher, she would be married in no time and leave the
profession.

"That isn't what I meant," Fox insisted, hoping Langly
couldn't read his discomfort.

"You be careful, Mulder.  Your old man would disown
you if you took up with a washerwoman."
 
Langly's familiarity was outrageous, except that
Langly was his friend.  The old man might disown him 
for that alone.

The thought was interrupted by the arrival of Langly's
partner.  Where Langly was crude and indifferent to
propriety, Byers was deferential and correct.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Mulder,"  he said, placing his
toolbox on the counter.

"Afternoon, Byers."  Fox had in vain assured him that
the title was unnecessary in this setting.

"You fixed the door on Rosenbloom's hockshop?" Langly
asked.  

Langly and Byers were locksmiths, among other things.

"Of course," Byers said.

"And you got the money?"

Byers' hesitation gave him away even before he spoke.

"She'll have the money on Saturday."

"You bonehead," Langly said.

"She explained it to me, Ringo.  On payday her
customers bring her the money to redeem their goods. 
They get paid, she gets paid and we get paid."

"Mrs. Rosenbloom is loaded!  That's like Mulder saying
he can't pay you until Georgie Westinghouse pays back
his loan."

Byers blanched and turned to Mulder, too tongue-tied
to apologize.

"It's nothing," Mulder assured him.

Langly shook his head in disgust.

"We need supplies, Byers, and now we'll be waiting
till Saturday.  And Mulder, that's a buck for printing
and developing."

Fox passed over a dollar.  Langly's work was worth the
money.

Tucking the pictures into his briefcase, he took a 
deep breath.  It was time to get back to work, that is if
he could get to his office undiscovered.

The Irish girl had rebuked him for skulking about, but
now Fox only wished he was a better skulker.  His
attempt to slip away from his office and back before
his absence could be noted was unsuccessful.  A
nervous man was waiting by his door as if he'd been
left to guard it.

"He sent for you, Mr. Mulder.  You're wanted in the
back."

"Thank you, Yancy.  Was it Mr. Traut who sent for me?"
Fox tried to sound nonchalant.

"No, Mr. Mulder, it was the Chief."

"The Chief" was the name that everyone used for Fox's
father, and most of them addressed him simply as
"Sir."  Both the Chief and Dewitt Traut had offices
removed from the hubbub of daily operations, in an
area referred to as "the back."

Fox made a deliberate effort to square his shoulders
before entering his father's office.  It wouldn't do
to lumber in like a guilty schoolboy.

The Chief eyed him coldly for a minute, then opened a
drawer and offered him a cigar.  Fox accepted it
gratefully.  It was a poor substitute for his roasted
sunflower seeds, but it gave him something to do with
his hands.

"You know, son, I was calling you in to offer my thanks.  
Imagine my disappointment to discover you had abandoned 
your post."  

"I'm sorry, Father.  I had a small matter to attend
to."  In addition to his business at Langly's, Fox had
spent a few minutes with the treasurer of a new
insurance company.  He was prepared to expand his
brief appointment into an explanation for his
whereabouts.

"Yes, your meeting on Maiden Lane.  Not a long walk,
Fox, even at my age."  

Fox didn't answer.  His father was staring into his
eyes, and Fox stared back, refusing to blink.  At last
the older man turned away.

"Mr. Skinner has been a marvel at managing your affairs 
at  home.  Perhaps you would benefit from his assistance 
in the office."

It was an insult and a threat.  Perhaps Fox needed his
old tutor with him at all times to assure his
obedience.  

"I don't plan to have another of my children
disappoint me, Fox.  I will not allow it."

"No, Sir," Fox said.  Again they locked eyes.

The Chief heaved a sigh.

"Your work is sound, Fox, but you need to apply
yourself."

"Yes, Sir."

"Very good work indeed on the South Central merger.  I
wanted to tell you that recent events have confirmed
your suspicions."

"You taught me not to conduct business with
scoundrels," Fox said.

"But you're the one who saw first that the man was a
scoundrel.  You spared our money and our reputation,
Fox."

"Thank you, Sir."

"You may return to your duties."

Fox returned to his office and applied himself.  If
he'd been at his desk when the Chief called, he would
have received the man's praise without the scolding. 
While part of him wished it had happened that way, a
small voice inside was asking if he really wanted to
live his life only to please his father.  A small
voice that kept nagging at him until he realized with
a start if was Samantha's.

Still he kept to his work.  Mulder & Traut was like
that golden goose.  Once in a while Fox would discover
a new kind of grain she liked, or he'd stop her from
eating a sack gone bad, but for the most part she kept
producing those golden eggs regardless of his efforts.
 
At last evening came, and Fox was free.   His mother
had reluctantly accepted his notice that he would not
be home to dinner.  Diana had urged him to join her
and some friends at Delmonico's, but again, he'd
declined.  

He'd heard word of a young woman who gave English
lessons at the settlement house.  A young woman with
dark, wavy hair who spoke so beautifully that everyone
knew that she couldn't be from the east side.  

Skinner arrived carrying the parcel that would turn
him into Mathew Fox.  

"Father compliments your skill at keeping me in line,"
Fox told him as he changed outfits.

"That would explain his signature on my pay checks,"
Skinner replied.

It was a sobering response, and Fox, who had been
close to confiding his hopes for the night, decided 
to keep them to  himself.

"Then count your blessings.  He may rent you by the
hour, but he owns me outright."

"But one day everything will be yours," Skinner said.

Fox finished dressing and Skinner folded his discarded
clothing into the parcel.

"When should I expect you?" he asked.

"Take the rest of the night off."

Fox waited for him to leave and then went out himself,
through the little used side entrance.  

He headed north, taking the Bowery.   People who knew
Fox Mulder didn't go there, just as people who knew
Mathew Fox didn't dine at the Schuylers'.

He wondered if this was the night he would find his
sister.  He'd been looking for her for four years, and
he'd been close many times.  He'd traced her to a
rented room only to arrive the day after she'd moved out. 
He found the telegraph office where Sean Pendrell had
worked until the week before.

Fox had only the vaguest memory of Sean Pendrell,
though in a sense they'd known each other all their
lives.  Sean had grown up on the edges of the Mulder
household, one of the servants' children.  He'd been
fortunate enough to secure a position as footman. 
When Mulder tried to recall his face, no clear image
emerged.  Yet young Sean had become Samantha's
champion, whisking her away from the German baron.

James Pendrell, the family's butler for decades,
resigned in disgrace when his son's perfidy was
discovered. 

In all the time she'd been gone, Samantha had never
contacted her brother.  In closing the door on her 
old life, she had shut him out as well.

Fox found his way to the settlement house, and thence
to the English class.

"Whatcha wanna take English for?" a woman asked him
suspiciously before directing him.  Her arms were 
crossed over her rather formidable chest, her brown
eyes shrewdly taking his measure.
 
"I'm to meet someone there," he said.

"Class is almost over.  You betta wait here for
your friend," the woman said, pointing to a bench
along the wall.

Leaning his head back against the wall, Fox listened 
to the drone of the teacher's voice through the heavy 
door.  Was that his sister?  He just couldn't tell and
the need to know ate at him.  Finally, he heard many
voices and the scrape of chairs.  

A moment later, the students filed out: men and women
exhausted from a hard day's work in the sweatshops and
on the loading dock.  A few older children were in the
group, obviously kids who'd left public school to work.

Fox stood up and waited until the room had cleared.  He
held his breath and gathered up his courage to enter the
room.  The teacher's head was bent, a fall of dark, wavy 
hair obscuring her face, as she tidied the desk.  At
the sound of Fox's approach, she raised her head.  His
hopes drifted away like smoke in the wind.

The teacher, while dark-haired and pretty, was not 
Samantha.

"Can I help you?" she asked.  

"I...I was wondering if you'd seen this girl?" he 
replied, digging in his pocket for Samantha's picture.  

"No," she answered, looking at the photograph carefully.  
"I'm afraid I've never seen her before."

Dispirited, he left the classroom and went down the
stairs, under the watchful eye of the sharp-tongued
woman.

"What's a matta, ya didn't find yer friend?"   

Fox shook his head.  

"Ya could try the Educational Alliance."

Fox thanked her and left the building.  There on the
stoop, his disappointment turned to astonishment.

A young woman stood on the stairs facing the street,
in deep discussion with a young man.  It was the girl
with the laundry.

"We don't have to go to the show.  We could go
dancing," the man was saying.

"Thank you, Tom, but I can't spare the time from my
work."  The Irish lilt was still in her voice, along
with an edge of steel.

"Your brother don't mind.  He's all for it," Tom
wheedled.

"I have no doubt of that.  He's forever trying to get
me married off," the girl laughed.

"Cause he's looking out for ya.  And I'm his best
friend, and he knows I'd do right."

"I'm sure he thinks so.  Good night, Tom."

She took a step up the stoop, still facing Tom and
oblivious of Fox.

"Katie, wait!  I'll take ya to the picture show," 
Tom called.

"Tom, please.  And good night."  

She took one more step--right into Fox, who remained
at the top of the stairs, frozen in fascination.

"My goodness!" she exclaimed.

"I'm s-s-sorry," he stammered.

"What the hell!" Tom shouted angrily.

"Oh, go home, Tom," Katie dismissed him.

Tom was advancing up the stairs.

"The lady asked you to leave," Fox said.

"Do stay out of this," the girl said.

"Ya stickin' yer nose in where it don't belong?"

Fox's comprehension of the vernacular exceeded his
fluency.

"I don't want no trouble," Fox said, a little woodenly.

"Well I'm gonna break yer face!"

"I don't think so," Fox countered.  

He'd learned a thing or two about fisticuffs in his
years at boarding school, and Skinner had instructed
him formally in some of the finer points.  The man
called Tom was shorter than he, although their weight
was about the same.  

Fox was still measuring up his opponent when the
latter grabbed him by the jacket, kneed him in the
groin and hauled him down from the stoop to the
sidewalk.   His mouth ground against the cement.  Then
he felt the heel of a boot as it slammed in his back
and then the toe of the boot at the side of his head. 
It was over before he could force himself to draw in a
breath.

"Shame on you, Tom Colton!"  The girl's commanding
voice pierced the air.  "Now get on home like I told
you!"

"To hell with you.  To hell with all o' youse," Tom
said.

Then Fox felt gentle hands on his head and gentle
words in his ear.  Gentle questions about the state of
his health, and whether he could hear the questions,
and if he could open his eyes.  It was so peaceful and
so beautiful that he would have thought he was in
heaven, if only everything didn't hurt so much.   

The gentle voice became brisk and efficient.

"Up on your feet now.  I'll help you."

Fox was certain that moving would increase the pain,
but Katie's tone left no room for debate.  

"There you go.  One step at a time."

She guided him up the steps and back into the
settlement house, finally settling him onto an 
ancient sofa in a small parlor.

The woman from the stairs bustled after them, the
commotion drawing her like a moth to flame.

"The boy from the English lessons!  What happened to
him?"

"He got into a scuffle with Tom Colton."

"Ach, that fashstinkena no-goodnik!"

"Shayna, I just don't know what I'm going to do 
about Tom.  My brother encourages him."

The older woman set to fussing over Fox, pulling his
coat off and cleaning his face with a wet, soapy rag.  
He tried to take over the task for himself, but she 
clucked a reprimand and he endured her ministrations 
without further protest.

"Oy, what a lip!  It's gonna look like a challah bread 
in the morning."

Fox turned his head in an attempt to evade Shayna's 
rag.  Each swipe she took at his mouth hurt like hell.

"Where do you live?  I'll have some of the boys take
you home," Katie said.

"Very kind of you, but there's no need," Fox said.

"It's late and dark, and clearly you're not from 
around here."

"Again, Miss, thank you for your concern, but I don't
need help to get home."

"More likely than not, Tom Colton is soothing his
pride with a bottle of whisky.  I won't be responsible
if you pass his way."

"I can take care of myself," Fox protested, although
it was difficult to assert himself while someone was
washing him like a child.  

"Look at his hands, soft like a baby's," Shayna
commented as she cleaned his fingers.

"Is there someone I can call then?  Someone to come
and fetch you?" Katie persevered.

Fox didn't believe he needed an escort.  Too, he
remembered he'd given Skinner the night off.  

"Thank you for your concern, but--"

"Then it's settled.  You'll stay here for the night."

"God in heaven, Katie, what are you thinking?" Shayna
exclaimed.

"I'm thinking he's not fit to be out in the night by
himself.  Now what are you thinking?" Katie retorted.

"A boy, a girl, all night in a house?  This is
craziness."

"I can't send him out, Shayna."

"Then you go!  Your mama has room.  Why go looking for
trouble?"

"Nonsense.  I'm a nurse.  I've stayed at night with
patients before.  Besides, I can't go to Mama's.
Bill might be there, and I'm sure Tom's been running
his mouth."

"It just isn't right."  Shayna drew her shawl tight
around her.

"I can't believe you're so conventional, Shayna.  Here
I was, thinking you were a nihilist."

"Nihilist, shmilhilist.  It's your reputation we're
talking about here, Katie."

"She's right," Fox said.  "I can't let you be 
compromised, Miss...."

"Scully.  Katie Scully, and I don't need anyone
worrying about my virtue, thank you very much, 
Mr..."

"Mathew Fox," he said pushing off the sofa.  
"And I'm going home."  Unfortunately, the room 
chose that moment to spin recklessly and Fox 
faltered.

"You most definitely are not, Mr. Fox!"  He sat 
back obediently.  He was only slightly less 
frightened of her right now than he usually was 
of his father.

"Oy, this is a big, big mistake," Shayna said.  
"But, it's your funeral, Katie Scully."

Shayna left, shaking her head and mumbling words
Fox wasn't familiar with.  

"Let's get you to bed," Katie said, holding out
a steadying hand to Fox.  

"You should go home," he urged.  

"I am home," she replied, leading him down the
hall.  "This used to be a private residence.  The 
staff is allowed to rent a few of the upstairs 
bedrooms, though I'm the only tenant right now.  
Do you think you can handle some stairs?"

"I'll do my best, Miss Scully."

She slipped an arm around his middle and they 
began to ascend.  Fox could hardly breathe
though he wasn't sure if that was due to his 
bruises or the proximity of such beauty.

By the time they reached the third floor,
he was winded and had spots before his eyes.
That bastard must have scrambled his brains
when he kicked him in the head.

"Here we are," she said, leading him into a
room.  As she turned the lamplight up, he saw
it was sparsely furnished: a bed, dresser, bed
stand and chair.  He sank gratefully onto the 
chair as she drew a bundle of sheets from the
dresser.  

"I'll have the bed made up in a jiffy."

He watched her work, enjoying each graceful, quick 
motion as she pulled the sheets tight and deftly 
tucked the ends into hospital corners.  Katie 
stepped back, hands on her hips to survey her work.  
 
"All right, in you go."  She helped him over
to the bed, kneeling at his feet to slip off his
shoes.  He didn't know if he was relieved or
disappointed when she stopped there and lifted
his legs onto the bed.
 
The bed smelled a bit musty as he lay against 
the pillows, but the sheets felt crisp and
fresh.  
 
"How do you feel?"
 
"A little dizzy," he said, raising a hand to
his head.  "My head hurts."
 
"You may be concussed, Mr. Fox," she said, sitting
on the side of the bed.  "I'll be needing to
keep an eye on you."
 
He felt ridiculously happy at the concept of this
lovely woman sitting by his bed.  He wanted to 
keep her talking just to hear her lilting voice.
 
"You said you were a nurse," he said.  
 
"That I did," she replied, taking his wrist between 
her cool fingers.  "You seem surprised."
 
"I thought you might be a teacher."

"Well, nursing has a lot to do with teaching.  I 
instruct the new mothers in caring for their babies 
and I also look after the people who use the settlement 
house.  Some of them are too poor to see a doctor and
afraid of hospitals." 

She turned the lights down, bathing the room in
shadows.  He heard the scrape of the chair as she
drew it closer to the bed.

"You can't sit up all night," he said.  "I'm far too 
much trouble."

"You're no trouble at all, and I'm only going to
sit here for a while.  I promise to go to bed
as soon as I'm satisfied with your condition."

"I'm fine," he protested.

"Dizzy is not fine," she replied.  "Mr. Fox...
why did you come here tonight?  Was it to take 
more pictures of 'people doing what they do'?" 

"So, you remember me," he said.  

"Of course I remember you.  It isn't every day
that a man pops 'round the corner and takes my
photograph."

"It came out quite well," he said.  It pleased him
that he'd made an impression with his beautiful
laundry girl, even if it was an unfavorable one.

"How nice for you," she replied.  "So, did you 
come here tonight to sneak up on people and take 
pictures?"

"No...I came here looking for my sister.  I heard
about a dark haired teacher and thought she might
be Samantha."

"You thought our Miss Jacobs was this Samantha," 
she said.  "But she wasn't."

Fox shook his head, immediately regretting the 
action which left the room spinning.  Katie 
shifted in her chair.  He could only imagine how
tired she must be after a long day's work.

"That chair can't be comfortable," he said.

"The chair is just fine," she said.  "Tell me about 
your sister."

Katie sat forward, her expression one of concerned
interest.  It occurred to him that no one had ever
looked at him that way--like they wanted to hear
what he had to say.  Fox Mulder was used to being
either ignored, criticized or fawned over.  Warm
concern was an unfamiliar concept.

"She ran away four years ago.  I'd been away from home
for a long time and while I was gone, she left.  There
were problems at home...I think if I'd been there, I
might have been able to help."

"How old was she?" 

"Sixteen.  She ran off with a boy not much older than
she.  It tore the family apart.  No one would talk about
it.  Sometimes, I think I'm the only one who cares 
about finding Samantha."

"It's heartbreaking, really, how people are so 
unforgiving of girls when they make mistakes.  It
happens all the time.  A girl gets in trouble, and 
her family turns her out."

"I know my mother pines for her.  I find her looking
at Samantha's picture sometimes, but she never says
her name."

"And you think your sister is down here.  In the slums.  
So you take pictures down here so you can find her."

She said it without judgement, but he still felt the 
sting of the words. 

"It started out that way," he replied.  "A means to
an end.  I would take photographs and ask questions.  
I've been close to finding her so many times but she's 
always just out of reach."

She moved from the chair to the edge of the bed to 
check his pulse and look into his eyes.  He moved over
hoping she'd stay on the bed with him.  

"You said that it only started that way.  How did it
change?"

He sighed deeply, inhaling the light scent of soap  
clinging to her skin even at the end of the day.

"I guess I got to know the people.  To see beyond the
poverty to the individuals.  I began to understand 
that no matter how poor they were, or how little they
had, there was something burning within them--the need
to do more than just survive."

They talked late into the night.  Katie seemed so 
completely absorbed by the conversation, she eventually 
forgot herself and stretched out next to him.  Propped 
up on one elbow, she watched his face as he talked.  
He told her things he'd never told anyone--the worry 
that he'd never find Samantha, the fear that he was a 
disappointment to the people who depended on him.  

He wanted to tell her that he was Fox Mulder and not
Mathew Fox, but something kept him silent on that 
count.  This girl was the most beautiful, kindest
person he'd ever met.  The moment she found out that
he was a rich interloper would be the last time he ever
saw her.  And he didn't think he could live without
ever seeing Katie Scully again.

Fox woke with the clip clop of horse hooves and 
the clink of milk bottles being deposited on doorsteps.  
It took him a moment or two to remember where he was,  
then looked over at Katie who was curled up on the other
side of the bed.  She looked like he imagined an angel 
would, sweet and pure, her head pillowed on her arm.  

At that moment, Fox wanted to kiss her more than he
wanted anything in the world.  Maybe more than he
wanted to breathe.  But he knew if he did, he'd never
leave.  But while Mathew Fox might have the time and 
freedom to do what he pleased, Fox Mulder had obligations
to attend to and the weight of responsibility crushing
him like a stone.

Carefully, so as not to jostle the bed and  wake her, 
he sat up.  The room no longer spun, which he took as a 
sign that he was hale if not hearty.  He picked up his 
shoes and crept downstairs.  His coat was on the back 
of the old sofa.  It was heavy when he picked it up and 
he remembered that he'd had his camera in the pocket
when he'd made the acquaintance of the front sidewalk.

The camera seemed to have fared much as he had--a little
dented but none the worse for wear.  He pocketed it
and slipped out of the house.  The early morning air
was scented with baking bread courtesy of the bakery
on the corner.  The street was already busy with people 
scurrying to work.  

He stood in his Mathew Fox clothes and tried to come up
with a plan.

He could go home.  Mother and Father would be easy 
to avoid, for she was probably still abed and he 
would be breakfasting alone, in his sitting room.  
Fox could take the back stairs up to his chambers 
and put on fresh clothing, leaving his parents 
none the wiser.

How to dodge Skinner, that was the question.

It could not be done, he realized.  The man was a
bulldog and a bloodhound all in one. Even now he knew
that Fox had passed the night away from home.  Even
now he was rehearsing another stern lecture about the
ills that befell young men who enjoyed the favors of
women who were coarse enough to offer them.  

Skinner would never believe Fox slept side by side 
with a beautiful girl and it had been innocent and
pure.  The man would laugh if Fox told him that even
though he wanted to kiss her, it would have been sweet
and clean and the complete opposite of coarse.  

Fox would welcome that lecture, if it would spare him
from Skinner's response to his swollen lip.  But
suddenly, in an unexpected chain of thought, Skinner's
dire warning provided Fox's salvation.   For a brisk
walk would bring him to the dwelling of Sheila
Fontaine, where he could find warm hospitality, but
more importantly, a change of clothes.

What set Sheila apart from other showgirls was--well,
nothing, really.  Except that Fox paid her rent.  
She'd pouted with disappointment that he located their
"love nest" near his place of business.  She had
dreamed of a mansion on Park Avenue, or at least a
townhouse on Washington Square.

He had to knock on the door to wake her, for he hadn't
carried his key.  At last he heard sounds from within,
and her coy query:

"Who is it?"

"It's me, Fox."

"Oh, you couldn't be Fox.  He never comes around no
more."

"Sheila, open the door!"

"Yeah, you don't even sound like Fox.  Fox talks real
sweet."

"Sheila!"

"Ain'tcha gonna talk sweet for me?"

"Sheila, my darling, please let me in."

"If I let you in, will you be my sweet lovin' man?"

"Yes, Sheila, please let me in so I can be your sweet
lovin' man."

"All right, sugar.  Cause I'm so lonely for you."

He pushed his way in as the door opened, and she
wrapped herself around him.  She smelled of stale
perfume.  

"Kiss me, you sweet lovin' man!" she commanded.  Her 
tangle of blonde curls trailing almost to her waist, 
she tilted her head back and pursed her lips.

Fox tried to oblige, forgetting his swollen lip until
it was too late and he recoiled.

"Sorry, Sheila.  I hurt my mouth," he explained.  She
peeled herself off him, hurt and insulted.

"You hurt your mouth.  Well ain't that just so
convenient," she said huffily.

"Look at me!  Look at my lip!" Fox had forgotten what
a halfwit she could be.

Sheila studied his face, and her anger melted into
pity.

"My poor baby.  Did you hurt yourself, my poor baby?"

Fox shouldered past her to the bedroom, where a
wardrobe held his clothes.  Sheila followed, her 
negligee swishing behind her.

"You make yourself comfortable, baby.  Would you like
a drink?"

"It's six in the morning," he said, dropping his
peacoat on the vanity chair.

"Let me help you," Sheila purred, rubbing against him
and reaching for his shirt buttons.

Fox took hold of her hands.

"Sheila, I'm in a hurry," he explained, and at last
she seemed to understand.  When she backed away, Fox
quickly removed his shirt and trousers, flinging both
garments atop his discarded coat.  

He'd left a pair of drawers here, he recalled; they
would be clean by now.  He turned to inquire for them
and found that Sheila was completely naked.

"Hurry, baby.  Cause I'm in a hurry for your sweet
lovin'," she said, her voice quavering.

Fox saw her as he never had before.  No longer young,
no longer a showgirl, but a desperate woman who pinned
all her hopes on his affection.  

"Get your clothes on," he said, gently.

"Don't say that, baby."

"You don't have to worry, Sheila.  I'll see that you
have what you need."  He pulled on his clothes,
fastening buttons as quickly as he could.

Sheila's face crinkled.  No tears fell as yet, but
they would.

"You know I can make you happy, sugar," she whispered.

He grabbed his jacket and bolted for the door.

What more could he say?  Farewell?  Till we meet
again?  Good-bye.  In the end he said nothing.  

The dignified world of Mulder & Traut felt like a
sanctuary when he arrived, and his office was his
haven.  He made use of the early hour to review the
cables from Europe.  Father had his eye on a French
steamship company and Fox needed the latest
information.

A knock on his door brought an intrusion.  Morris
Fletcher was intelligent, confident and shrewd. 
Unfortunately he was also obnoxious.  Fox had nodded
at him on the way in; now the man stood in his doorway
holding a cup of steaming coffee.

Fox thanked him.  The coffee was welcome, even if
Morris was not.  Fox took a satisfying sip before he
set the saucer on the desk.  He knew well that
Fletcher's normal duties did not include the provision
of refreshments.

"Forgot to open the door before you left the house,
did you, Mr. Mulder?" Morris asked, tapping his lips.

"Yes, Morris, it occurred in exactly that manner," Fox
answered.  

"We could say it happened right here," Morris offered.

"Thank you for the coffee," Fox said, but Morris would
not be dismissed.

"If the Chief asks, or DT, we'll say I opened the door
too fast, got you right in the face."

"I'd counsel you to respect the truth, in your
dealings with my father and Mr. Traut," Fox said
stiffly.

Fletcher gave a little laugh.

"That's what I always say."

He retreated, and Fox knew he would waste no time in
spreading the word of Fox's fat lip.  

Fox spent the day as quietly and industriously as he
could.  He left the office once at midmorning, for a
walk to the piers.   For endeavors of commerce,
industry and shipping, there was no substitute for
direct observation.  He lunched at the Club, with
Father and DT.  Neither man asked about his injury,
although it forced him to leave much of his meal
untouched.

He broke from his work briefly to tend to his personal
finances.  He devised the details of a trust that
would provide comfortably for Sheila Fontaine.  Perhaps 
he would buy her a house, as well.  A house in the country.

As the workday approached its close, Fox realized he
would have to go back to the east side that evening. 
He had promised a picture to the bowlegged boy he had
photographed.  Benny Pinsker, that was his name.  

He really had to bring a picture to young Benny as soon
as he could.  And he could stop by Penazek's for more 
sunflower seeds.  And he should thank Shayna.  And 
since he was going there anyway, it would be rude not 
to call on Miss Katie Scully.

He took the streetcar home because he didn't have a
coat.  He entered his home through the front entrance,
because he was Fox Mulder.

Edgar the butler, who greeted him at the door, must
have noticed the lack of coat and the swollen lip, but
of course he said nothing.  Skinner was waiting for
Fox in his suite, and he wasn't as reticent.

"I see what happens when I take the night off," he
said stonily.

"Draw me a bath, please," Fox said.

"Where were you, Mulder?"

"Oh, and I'll need you to go down to Miss Fontaine's
tomorrow.  I left my coat and camera at her place."

Fox leaned down to untie his laces, but Skinner made
no move to start the bath.

"If you choose to pass your time with women such as
*Miss* Fontaine, you can keep track of your things or
retrieve them yourself," Skinner said.  "And what
happened to your mouth?"

"I fell down some stairs," Fox answered, standing up
to remove his shoes.

"Your father suspected you'd been in a fight," Skinner
said.  

"He said nothing to me about that," Fox answered.

Without warning, Skinner grabbed Fox's hands, first
right, then left, turning them over to check the
knuckles.

"You haven't thrown any punches," Skinner concluded.

Fox's flash of resentment turned to controlled anger.

"Miss Fontaine's house, right away, Skinner.  I'll
draw my own bath."
 
********************************
 
Skinner knocked now before entering Fox's bedroom. 
That was one of many changes, and one of the good
ones.  There was a new distance between the two, 
and if Fox missed the companionship, he also 
realized that it was a necessary adjustment.

In any event, he had little time for loneliness.  

Fox stood shaving in his bathroom, the taps wide 
open, and Skinner must have knocked quite forcefully.

"Enter," Fox called.

Skinner's reflection appeared in the mirror, watching
and silent.  With a pang, Fox remembered his own
youthful fascination at watching his tutor shave. 
That was long ago, when Fox was a smooth-faced boy 
and Skinner had hair on his head.

"Your father came up here last night, before you 
returned," Skinner said at last.  "I told him you 
were fast asleep."

"Very good," said Fox.

"He asked to see you at breakfast this morning.  He
and your mother wish to speak to you."

"I see."

"He said he had looked for you down in the darkroom. 
He asked who was responsible for the 'chamber of
horrors' he found there."
 
Fox felt as if he'd been slapped.

"He called my photos a chamber of horrors?" he asked.

"I'm sure he was reacting to the subject matter, not
the artistic merit.  I chose to tell him that I had
taken up the hobby," Skinner said.

"Oh.  Well, good that you told me."

"Yes, Mr. Mulder.  Any instructions for today?"

"I left some notes from the Powhattan Mill meeting. 
They need to be transcribed into something coherent," 
he said.  Deciphering Fox's chicken scratch notes and
typewriting them would keep Skinner busy all morning.  
"That will do, Skinner."

Fox whistled the funeral march as he finished shaving,
his discomfort tempered by his secret happiness.  It
had been three weeks since Katie Scully had watched over
his battered body.  

Three weeks of walks in the evening, spirited talks over 
coffee and spending time with the most fascinating 
creature on the planet.  Fox would be so engrossed 
in their conversations, he'd completely forget how 
much he wanted to kiss her.  It would have been perfect 
if not for the fact that Fox Mulder was a stranger to
Katie Scully.  Mathew Fox was her "fella."

Fox completed his morning ablutions and went downstairs
to breakfast.

"Good morning, Mother.  It's a rare pleasure to see
you up so early.  And Father, I'm honored you'd care
to breakfast with me."  He kissed his mother on the
cheek and bowed his head toward his father.

"You've grown so thin," his mother said.

"You always say that, Mother."

"Sit down, Fox," said his father.

Fox seated himself at the table and signaled for
Edgar to fill his cup.  The emptiness across the 
table was a yawning chasm.

"Isn't this nice?  All of us together," Mother said.

Fox swallowed hard.  Somewhere Samantha was sitting
down to breakfast--he hoped.

"Nothing's more important than family," Father said.

Cook had produced rations enough for a regiment.  Fox
busied himself with a fresh brioche.  

"You've been like a phantom," Mother said, with a
small smile.  "Out with your friends, night after
night."

"I was home on Tuesday," Fox reminded her.

"Mrs. Schuyler was heartbroken that you declined her
Arabian Nights social," Mother said.   

"Diana was disappointed as well.  And her costume was,
er, quite authentic," said Father.

Mother cleared her throat, obviously less impressed
than her husband.

William Mulder leaned forward to address her, as if
Fox wasn't in the room.

"Well, think about it, Teena.  The boy's mad about
chorus girls, and he grumbles that the young ladies he
meets are flighty and dull.  The Fowley widow is
perfect for him."

"Yes, Bill, but we're talking about the mother of our
grandchildren.  Diana seems so... hard."

"Hard?  Well, makes a perfect match with his soft
head."  Fox pushed back his chair from the table, and
Father hurried to mollify him.  "I'm joking, son, of
course."

"And you're very amusing," Fox said.  "But I must be
off."

"But your breakfast!  Cook will be crushed," Mother
protested.

"That's my curse.  I can't make a move without
breaking someone's heart," Fox said, folding his
serviette and dropping it on the table.

"Fox!" His father's command was quiet but sharp. 
"Diana is expecting you at a late supper tonight at
Delmonico's."   

"And I'm not to disappoint her," Fox concluded.

His father gave a nod.

"You're a smart boy, Fox."

Fox could wait and ride to work in the car with
Father, but that was something he avoided even on 
a good day.  He took the streetcar, and he'd been 
at his desk a scant ten minutes when Morris Fletcher
sauntered into his office.

"Sorry, Mr. Mulder, but you're wanted in the back." 
Fletcher didn't even try to hide his glee.

Father wouldn't be in so soon.  He knew it was DT who
had summoned him.

Fox dropped into the chair across the older man's
desk.

"No doubt I've disappointed you as well," he said.

"No, you have not."  Traut looked him in the eye, but it
wasn't a staring contest.  He was concerned and
curious.

"Then you're the only one," Fox said.

"You've never disappointed me, Fox.  At times you've
surprised me, but you've never disappointed me."

Traut had always been a good listener, but Fox resisted 
the urge to air his grievances.

"Thank you for that.  Now, why did you want to see
me?"

"You're aware we're looking to extend ourselves
further into insurance," DT said.

"It's a strong industry," Fox agreed.

"I have an appointment with Zeus Insurance
Underwriters this afternoon.  I'm going to pass 
it on to you."

"Why?" Fox asked.

"Two reasons.  First, you have an uncanny instinct
when it comes to money.  I tell you a cargo ship is
lost in the North Sea, and you tell me the price of
apples will go up in Indiana."

"But that's easy--"

"Easy for you, maybe.  But the second reason isn't
about profit, it's about people.  You can weigh a man
with your eyes.  I don't know how you do it, but it's
as if you see right through to his character."  Traut
leaned back in his chair.  "It's a gift, Fox, and one
I value highly."

"Thank you, Dewitt."   

"Feeling some pressure at home?" Traut asked, kindly.

Fox shook his head.  What happened at the Mulders'
breakfast table should not become public conversation.

"Diana Fowley's a handsome woman," DT said.

"She is that," Fox agreed.

Traut pulled his chair from behind the desk to bring it
closer to where Fox sat.

"Marriage doesn't have to be a cage, Fox.  It can
be... a nest.  A canary is a prisoner in his cage, but
an eagle may soar," he said.  "An eagle might even
have two nests, if that's what suits him."

When Fox and Samantha were little, Traut used to delight
in telling them stories, usually classics from Aesop
and LaFontaine, and usually with animals.  Fox was
amused despite himself.

"Two nests.  That's a lot of eggs," Fox said somberly.

"Eggs are to be avoided," Traut said.

"No eggs?"

"Eggs belong in the first nest."

"The one that's not a cage?"

DT smiled.

"I see I've made myself clear," he said.

It was clear all right, but two nests would not suit.  
Diana Fowley might be perfectly happy knowing that her 
husband had "a nest on the side," and Sheila would 
probably sing like a bird in that arrangement, but he 
didn't love her.  The only person he wanted to spend 
time with was Katie and she didn't seem like a second 
nest kind of girl.

Fox felt less burdened as he returned to his own
office, not because of Traut's theories on matrimony
or his delicate way of expressing them, but because of
his sincere approval.  A glance at the ledgers should
have been enough for Fox to gauge his success, but for
some reason the praise of a man he admired meant just
as much.  
 
A light rain was falling when Fox rode up Fifth Avenue
to the Flatiron Building and the offices of Zeus 
Underwriters.

As Fox saw it, insurance was one of the simplest types
of enterprise.  You assessed the liability in terms of
value and likelihood of loss and you set your rates
accordingly.  Certainly there was an element of
chance, but you manipulated circumstances to reduce it
to its minimum.  The insurer strove to set the rates
as high as possible, but that was mitigated by the
desires of the purchasing party and competition from
other would-be insurers.

Joseph McGrath was chief executive officer of Zeus.
He was a beefy man of around fifty, obviously used to
giving orders.

"You're Mr. Mulder?  I thought you'd be older," he
said.

"I will be," Fox promised.  "What can you tell me
about your business?"

McGrath delivered a detailed description.  Fox
listened attentively, reasonably impressed with the
man's knowledge and candor.

At length Fox asked about automatic sprinklers, and
McGrath stared blankly.

"They've proven effective time and again," Fox
prompted him.

"They're *expensive*," McGrath gasped.  "I don't want
to put my customers out of business."

"Mr. McGrath, do you know the maximum height of a fire
department ladder?  Do you know the reach of a fire
hose?" Fox asked.

"About six stories," McGrath answered.

"But many people work above the sixth story," Fox
reminded him.

"The buildings are fireproof.  That's the point." 

There was much to recommend Zeus, and McGrath himself
seemed like a reasonable, intelligent man.  Fox knew
DT would back him if he simply walked away, but he
girded himself for a different approach.

"Mr. McGrath, are you married, sir?  Do you have any
children?  I had a feeling you were a family man."

"I have a family, Mr. Mulder, but I fail to see what
that has to do with fireproof buildings."
 
How had the priorities become so out of order.  Fireproof
buildings were all well and good, protecting the property.
Zeus Underwriters advocated the building of fireproof 
buildings, offering lower premiums to businesses housed
in them.  When Fox had asked what incentives Zeus extended
for employee safety, McGrath had looked at him as
if he'd sprung a second head right out of his shirt collar.

"Factory buildings are expensive to replace," McGrath had 
told him.  "The workforce is plentiful.  Ten laborers are
turned away for each position filled."

After hours of looking over Zeus's policies and finding 
himself horrified at the lack of concern for life and 
limb, Fox told McGrath that he had enough information.  
Mulder & Traut would be getting in touch with them at 
a later time.   At last, they shook hands and Fox took 
his leave.  

It was nearly eight in the evening when Fox left the 
Flatiron.  In the hours he'd been inside, the drizzle 
had turned to a torrent and the sky had become black.

Fox stood in the lobby, fastening the buttons on his 
topcoat and watching the rain pour down.  Through the 
glass, he spotted the newsboy whose photograph he'd 
taken weeks before.  The poor kid wasn't having much 
luck selling papers as potential customers rushed by 
in the rain.  

Fox exited into the torrential rain, cursing himself 
for forgetting his umbrella.  Wind blew the rain down 
Fifth Avenue in sheets.  

"Paper!  Get yer evening World!  Get the whole World for
a penny!"

The newsboy struggled to hold onto the paper as he hoarsely 
shouted his sales patter.  

The look of desperate gratitude on the child's face broke
Fox's heart as he proffered his penny for a newspaper.

"Tough night?" he asked, tucking the soaked paper under
his arm.  

"The papers are all wet," he said, close to tears.  "I
gotta make good on 'em whether I sell 'em or not."

"How many do you have left?" Fox asked, holding his coat
collar closed against the wind.

"Got a couple hunerd, and they ain't gonna sell, that's
fer sure."

Digging in his pocket, Fox extracted two singles.  "Here.
Now they're sold."

"Golly, Mister.  Thanks!"  Under the brim of his fisherman's
cap, raindrops sat on the boy's light-colored eyelashes.  
The expression of joy on the boy's face touched something 
inside Fox.  

"Let's get rid of these," Fox said, lifting the heavy bundles
of wet newspapers.  Ink ran off his hands as he dumped them
into a nearby garbage can.  "You know, I'm famished.  You
look like you could use a hot meal, too.  Why don't we
walk on down to Hoffmiller's for a plate of sauerbraten."

"Sour what?" the boy asked, hesitantly.

"Sauerbraten...it's like pot roast.  Trust me."

Around the corner on West 21st Street, Hoffmiller's 
German Restaurant was a short walk.  The boy trotted 
along, having little trouble keeping up with Fox's 
long-legged gait.

In the restaurant's steamy warmth, they hung up their 
drenched coats on hooks by the door.  The newsboy doffed 
his soaked hat, revealing a mass of curly hair that must 
have gotten him called "carrot top" every day of his life.

The waiter showed them to a booth and they slid in.  Fox
waved away the menu as unneeded.  He ordered a plate of
sauerbraten with potato dumplings and red cabbage for the 
kid and a bowl of chicken consomme for himself.  He didn't 
want to get too filled up as he still had a late supper 
with Diana to suffer through.  

"Hey, I remember ya," the boy said, looking at Fox for
the first time in the restaurant's better light.  "How
come yer rich now?" 

Fox winced inwardly, remembering his generous impulse of
three weeks past.  Tipping a quarter for a penny newspaper
had been foolish when done wearing Mathew Fox's clothes.

"I came into a windfall," Fox said.  "So, who do I have
the pleasure of feeding tonight?"

"Charlie Scully," the child said, extending a dirty hand.

Taking the boy's hand, Fox felt the earth shudder as his 
two lives collided.  What were the odds, he mused, that 
a red-headed boy named Scully wouldn't be related to Katie.

"Pleased to meet you, Charlie Scully," Fox said, carefully
avoiding any mention of his own name. 

Fox flagged down the waiter and ordered a beer.  Glancing
at Charlie's freckled face, he added a sasparilla for the
kid.

"So, tell me about yourself, Charlie.  Do you have any 
brothers and sisters?"
 
"I got a brother and two sisters," Charlie said.  "But 
they're all older'n'me, so mostly, it's just me and Ma.
My Da died last year."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Fox said.  Katie had talked very
little about her family.  He knew her father was dead, and
that she had siblings, but very little else about her.  The
urge to pump this child for details was very strong.  

The waiter arrived, bearing the beverages as well as a huge 
platter of food for Charlie and Fox's bowl of soup.  Charlie's 
eyes widened at the sight of such a bounty.  

After several minutes of concentrated eating on Charlie's 
part, Fox prompted him for more details.  Charlie shared
that his brother, Bill, was a longshoreman--something Charlie
thought was thrilling.  Fox thought it was terrifying.  

Charlie's elder sister was married and lived a few blocks
away.  But it was the second sister Fox was interested in
hearing about.  Charlie seemed both awed and a little 
disapproving as he talked about Katie.  Charlie obviously
adored her, but the prevailing family attitude toward an
independent young woman showed through. 

"So, your sister is a nurse.  That's quite admirable," Fox
offered, feeling horrible at the idea of using this kid to
ask about Katie.  But whether he felt horrible or not, Fox
seemed unable to control the urge to investigate.  "Must
keep her very busy."

"I guess.  We don't hardly see her no more.  She use ta 
come 'round and see Ma, but Katie says she got work to
do at night.  Ma don't believe her.  She thinks Katie got
a fella comin' 'round the settlement house."

Whether it was his under-active conscience or his infrequently
utilized sense of self-preservation, Fox Mulder knew
it was time to change the subject.  No matter how much 
he wanted to question Charlie about how much Katie might
be interested in this "fella," this was dangerous territory. 

For the rest of the meal, they talked about baseball and
the recent World Series.  Fox favored the Detroit Tigers,
while Charlie was more of a Pittsburgh Pirates man.

After dinner, Fox ordered Charlie an enormous apple strudel
which the child inhaled before the waiter got back to the
kitchen.  Fox checked his pocket watch, remembering his
date with Diana.  He flagged down the waiter and paid the
bill. 

Fox and Charlie stood under the restaurant's awning, watching
passers-by struggle with their umbrellas.  The rain pounded
down so fiercely, the drops bounced as they hit the pavement.

"Thank you for dinner, Mister," Charlie said, pulling his hat
down over his mop of hair.  

"Charlie, how would you like to go home in a hansom cab?"

"Gee!  No foolin'?"  Charlie was practically dancing with
happiness.

"No fooling," Fox replied as he attempted to flag down a cab.  
Ten wet minutes later, Fox was successful at they climbed up
into the cab.  

"Where to?" the cabbie asked.

"Clinton Street," Charlie replied.  The boy was apparently 
unable to sit still while the cab moved through the city 
streets.  After a few blocks, Charlie asked Fox if they
could go to the settlement house instead of home.  

"I fergot, Ma tole me I gotta stay with Katie tonight.
Missy--that's my other sister--and her babies are at our 
place 'cause that bum of a husband o' hers drank the 
rent money again.  There ain't enough room for me an' 
it's Friday so I don't hafta go to school tomorrow."

"Does your sister stay with your mother often?" Fox asked.

"Whenever they get evicted.  Bill says she made her bed
and oughta lie in it now, but Ma feels bad 'cause of the
babies."

"Well, then, let's get you to the settlement house."  Fox
gave the driver his new instructions and wondered if
the night could possibly get any more complicated.  He
unwittingly befriends Katie's brother, on the same night 
he is forced to meet with a woman he doesn't want to marry
and now has to come within feet of Katie as he delivers
Charlie to her door.

"Driver, I'll get out at the corner,"  Fox called out.  
He extended his hand to Charlie.  "Take care of yourself,
young Charlie."

"Thank you, Mister."

Fox hopped out of the cab, instructing the cabbie to take
Charlie on to the settlement house and paying him generously.
From his vantage point a half block away, Fox watched the 
cab continue to the settlement house where Charlie
got out, ran up the front stoop and disappeared inside.

The rain had almost stopped, but the night sky was still 
overcast with clouds as Fox walked down the street.  Maybe
fate would smile upon him, after all.  He'd only be slightly 
damp by the time he walked the mile to Delmonicos.

The maitre-d'hotel lead him to a windowside table
where Diana sat sipping a glass of wine.  Across from
her, his back toward Fox, a gray-haired man sat
smoking a cigarette.  Like Fox, he wore business
attire rather than evening wear.

"I'm sorry I kept you waiting," Fox greeted her.  

"I was admirably entertained," she said, with a nod
across the table.

"Then I am in your debt as well," Fox said, turning to
address her companion.

"Not at all.  Mrs. Fowley's company is a reward in
itself, and I was eager to see you again, after so
many years."

They shook hands, Fox expressing great pleasure at the
reunion as he racked his brain to remember the man's
name, or even where they had met.  

Fox took his seat beside Diana.  She reached for his
hand and held it on her lap.

"Do you know what I missed most when I was abroad?"
asked the man Fox couldn't quite remember.  "The food.
One can't get a good beefsteak in England."

England, thought Fox.  We met when I was in England.

"Then you must join us.  Delmonico's is famous for
their steak," Diana said.

"I wouldn't  dream of intruding," the man said,
stubbing out his cigarette.    "Have a wonderful
night."

"Oh, we shall," Diana laughed.  "Fox owes it to me,
after making me wait."

The man departed.  If only there was a way to do so
gracefully, Fox would have dearly loved to move to his
vacant seat.

"Who was that?" he asked Diana.

"Oh, I thought he'd never leave," she answered airily.

"I know I've seen him before, and he remembered me--"

"Is that how you treat all your lady friends?   Arrive
whenever you please and then spend the evening talking
about someone else?"

"Forgive me, Diana.  You look beautiful tonight, and
from this moment you have my undivided attention." 
When he'd walked her home from Mrs. Schuyler's party,
she'd been undemanding and easy to talk to. 
Apparently something had changed.

"I thought we had an understanding, Fox, if not an
agreement.  I thought we were prepared to move on to
an agreement."

"I fear I may have misled you," he said, bracing
himself for her wrath.

Instead she smiled indulgently and squeezed his
captive hand.

"I keep forgetting how very young you are.  Your
commanding presence in the sphere of business made me
forget that in many ways, you are but a child."

"Just so," he agreed, willing to accept her disrespect
if it bought him his release.

The waiter approached.

"We're ready, Dmitri," Diana said, and he withdrew. 
Fox watched him walk away until Diana used a finger to
tap his cheek.

"I know about you," she said.  "Your donation to the
foundling hospital.  Your contributions to the strike
fund."

"Money I gave publicly and without shame."

"Yes, Fox, and I did as well.  Some of the finest
money in the country supports such causes."

"Then I don't see your point," he said.

"I know about your pictures.  In a city full of
elegance and beauty, you photograph tenements and
factory workers."

"A loosely held secret at best," he said.  

"Everyone has something to hide."  Again she squeezed
his hand, and then her voice became gentler.  "You
don't have to give up any of that.  You simply need to
become responsible."

Fox wondered if Harry Houdini had moments like this,
when escape seemed impossible.

"Responsible to your family and to your country," she
continued.  "To the foundlings and factory workers who
rely on the giants of banking and business to keep the
factories open.  To the greater good."

"Surely there's more than one way to serve the greater
good," Fox said.

"You've been a child, with only the responsibility of
a child to your own dreams and fantasies," Diana
concluded.  "You won't know the true joy of
responsibility until you plant your feet in the
world... and become a father."

Panic made him giddy, and Fox began to laugh.

"You call me an irresponsible child, and then you
command me to become a father," he sputtered.

Diana laughed too, and she shook her head indulgently.

"Most men are like children."

There was no gallant way to make her release his hand.
It took both hands and stony determination to get
himself free.

"I'll see you home now," he said.

"No, Fox, you will stay, and eat your steak, and you
will hear the rest of what I have to say."

Indeed, the waiter had returned with two massive
steaks, which he set on the table.

"You see, I don't have much patience for
preliminaries," Diana said.  "Or would you like to
start with some soup or pate?"

"This is fine," Fox mumbled, picking up his fork.

The steak was superb, so good that Fox was able to
enjoy it despite the circumstances.  Cooked medium
rare, as he would have ordered it himself if he'd had
been allowed the chance.  

Conversation turned to more comfortable matters. 
Diana sought his advice about selecting a camera.  She
asked him to explain the debate over baseball's
sacrifice fly, and whether he thought it should be
allowed.

And then, when he was reluctantly deciding that he
couldn't eat another bite no matter how delicious, she
put her hand on his knee.

"You do need a wife, and frankly you could do no
better than a wealthy lady who knows all there is to
know of how to bring pleasure to a man."

"I am sure that you do, but--"

"You haven't the slightest idea."  Her smile was
almost a taunt.

"Really, Diana, you make me sound like a blushing
virgin," he protested.

"Poor little rich boy.  They tell you you're swell and
you believe them."

Her hand slid higher on his leg, and he gasped.

Fox was speechless.  He had no words to say, and not
the breath to say them.

"Before you reject me, I want you to know what you're
giving away.  That's all I ask of you, Fox."

Fox asked a question that sounded like, "Whahabahah?"

She called to the waiter.

"Dmitri, call for my carriage."

"C-c-carriage?" Fox managed.  

She brushed her lips along his cheek and whispered in
his ear:

"I know so much about you, but I'm very good at
keeping secrets.  All I ask is that you take one night
to see what you've been missing."

She started to rise, and it snapped him to action.  A
gentleman must never sit when a lady stands.  And of
course he must slide back her chair.

Diana's laughter tinkled with delight as she took his
hand.

"Come with me, my sweet boy. . . "

***************************
 
"Diana, please," Fox said as she steered him through 
Delmonico's.  "This isn't right."

Fox found himself in a rather unique position for
a young man.  Diana had offered him one evening in
her bed to show him what marvels marriage to her
would entail.   Most men would consider it enviable
in the extreme.  To Fox, it was infinitely 
uncomfortable.  

"People are looking at us, Fox.  We'll continue
our discussion outside."  Diana's voice was warm 
and persuasive, her hand on his arm like an iron
band.  

"Diana," he hissed as tried to pull his arm out of
her grasp.  It was true, their passage through
the restaurant had attracted a little attention 
from the other patrons.  He stopped resisting, not
wanting to make a scene.

"I'd prefer to walk, Diana."  Now that they no 
longer had an audience, perhaps he could get free.

"Don't be silly, Fox.  It's late and my carriage
is right here."

Before he knew what happened, he was beside Diana 
in her carriage and she was giving her driver the 
order to take them home.  To her home.

"Fox, dear, you have to trust me," she said, taking
his hand.   "I know how to make you happy."  

Diana studied his hand, turning it over in her hand.
"You have the most beautiful hands I've ever seen on
a man.  I can picture them doing a thousand things."

Her evening wrap had fallen open, revealing decolletage
barely restrained by the lowcut bodice of her dress.  
Diana placed Fox's hand on the warm curve of one 
breast.  

"I have so much to offer you, Fox.  You need someone
who can give you both pleasure and guidance.  I can do
that."

It would have been so easy to let it happen.  Diana
would be a skilled lover, a courtesan disguised as
a society paragon.  His parents would be pleased. 
After all, marriage to Diana would be financially
advantageous and the match would align the Mulders 
with the lofty Schuylers.  If only this didn't feel
so terribly wrong.  He pulled his hand away.

"This is a mistake," he said as she reached up to 
caress his cheek.  Fox recognized he was on very 
dangerous ground.  

"Darling," Diana said, sliding her arms around
his neck.  Her breath was hot on his face and her
mouth was inches from his.  "Oh, darling, how
can something so wonderful be a mistake.  You're
such a beautiful, beautiful man.  So untamed,
so passionate."

With that, she kissed him, long and wet and deep.  
He tried to push her away, but she mistook his 
resistance for ardor.  His struggling only increased 
Diana's aggression as she pressed herself against him 
all the harder.  Her hands were everywhere: ruffling 
through his hair, sliding over his chest and shoulders, 
measuring him through his clothes.  

"You're so strong," Diana murmured against his
mouth.  She pushed his top coat and suit jacket 
open and began to unbutton his shirt.  When one
wouldn't give way, she pulled the shirt open, 
scattering buttons to the floor of the carriage.
Diana's hands were all over his chest, cool 
fingers massaging his flesh through the soft cotton 
of his undershirt.  "I can hardly wait to get you home..."

Finally, Fox managed to grab her shoulders and
push her away.  "Diana," he asserted, "I will 
not be railroaded into your bed." 

"Oh, my sweet," she said, her hand straying to his groin.  
"It doesn't appear that I'll have to force you to do 
anything."

In truth, he was hard.  Only a dead man would have had
no reaction to Diana's caresses.  She cupped him, her
fingers deft and practiced.  Gathering his strength, 
Fox pushed her hand away.

Arousal was not a state he was unfamiliar with.  It 
meant exactly nothing except that he was a young 
healthy man and Diana was an expert at how to handle 
a man.

"Driver!" he shouted, his voice embarrassingly
desperate.  "Driver, I'll get out here."

Fox was afraid the carriage wouldn't stop and he'd
be forced to jump, but the driver pulled up on the 
horse and the carriage drew to a stop.

He hopped down, pulling his coat around him to hide
his unbuttoned shirt.  His face was flaming and sweat 
prickled at his skin.  The erection had only subsided
a little and still tented his trousers.

As the carriage pulled away, he could hear Diana's
laughter.  

It could be weeks before he learned the total cost for
thwarting her passion.  The financial and societal
power that made Diana a good match also made her a
formidable enemy.  Mulder & Traut was too large and
well regarded to suffer any lasting damage, but it
would be a short season indeed if Mrs. Schuyler let it
be known that the Mulders were no longer the right
sort of people.  Fox wouldn't miss the invitations,
but his parents would, especially Mother.

Maybe Diana would accept defeat quietly.  She could
tell her aunt that Fox Mulder had ceased to amuse her,
without offering further explanation.  After all,
tonight's events reflected poorly on her own conduct.

But that was the hell of it.  While Diana could
concoct any story she liked, Fox was forced to keep
silent.  The night's events were such that they could
not be related by a gentleman.  Even if they knew the
truth, Mother and Father were unlikely to be
sympathetic.  Mother would point out that he cozied 
up with showgirls for his own selfish pleasure, but
refused to sleep with a well-born lady when his
family's fortune and future depended on it.

He shoved his hands into his pockets as he walked the
five blocks to his home.  The evening air felt cool 
through his undershirt as his coat pulled open.  Fox 
sincerely hoped his parents had retired for the night,
saving him from the embarrassment of having to explain
the state of his clothing.

This was the perfectly wretched end to a perfectly 
wretched day.  Being taken to task by his father at
breakfast had certainly been an inauspicious beginning.
Fox still wasn't sure how he was going to deal with 
Charlie.  One false move and his double life would be
uncovered, effectively ending his romance with Katie.

Fox was relieved to reach home without encountering 
any acquaintances.  The junior footman opened the door.  
He gawked in surprise at Fox's disarray as Fox 
reluctantly allowed himself to be divested of his coat.   

"Your parents are waiting in the library," the footman 
said.

"Say I will join them shortly," Fox said.  His plan to
dash upstairs for a dressing gown, like so many of his
plans today, was thwarted.  His mother burst into the
foyer, his father close behind.

"Fox, is that you?"  Mother asked.  "We didn't expect
you home so early."

Father looked him over with great satisfaction and no
little amusement.  Fox raked one hand through his hair,
holding his shirt closed with the other.

"I trust that you and Diana have become better
acquainted."

"Don't keep us in suspense," Mother said.

Fox felt hopelessly besieged.  Good God, what Samantha
must have endured.

"I'm very tired," he said, and his father let out a
phony laugh.

"But how was your date?" Mother asked, an edge of
uncertainty in her voice.

"The steak was perfect."

"Now you know that's not what I meant," she protested.

"Let's, er, wait and see what Diana thinks about it,"
he said.

"I suppose we'll have to wait, Teena," his father
chuckled.  "You've raised the boy too well, I'm afraid.
He's far too discreet to discuss a lady."

His mother laughed indulgently, stretching up to 
kiss Fox on the cheek.  He couldn't remember the last
expression of affection he'd received from his mother.

"Well, then, goodnight, Fox."

Sleep was in short supply that night as Fox tossed and
turned and wondered how his mother would react to life
as a social pariah.  When he finally drifted off, he
dreamed Diana was tearing at him with sharp claws.

His body felt sluggish the next morning.  Fox sat on 
the end of his bed yawning.  The knock at the door was
soft.

"Come," he said.

"Good morning," Skinner said.  "I wasn't sure you would
be awake."

"I don't think I am," Fox said, stifling another yawn.

"You could go back to sleep for a few more hours," 
Skinner said.  "Your father was in quite a state this 
morning.   I haven't seen him this pleased since he and
Pierpont Morgan stopped the market crash.  He said you 
should take the morning off--something about being 
exhausted after a busy night."

Since Saturday was a short day for Mulder & Traut,
Father had effectively given Fox the day off.  He 
must have been very pleased, indeed.  Was it disingenuous
to take advantage of his father's generosity when 
it was only a matter of time before the facts came
to light?

Further sleep was an unwelcome option as it might 
lead to more nightmares.  Fox shivered, pulling his 
dressing gown around his shoulders.  "I've slept
enough," he said, shaking his head.

Skinner seemed to be enjoying Fox's discomfort a
little too much, but he made no comment.  A few weeks 
ago, he'd probably have joked that the chorus girl days
were behind him as Fox had developed more sophisticated 
tastes.  In light of their still somewhat strained 
relationship, Skinner had apparently chosen to be 
circumspect.

"In that case, your mother has requested you join her
at breakfast."

"Tell her I'd be delighted."  

Fox would begin to gently prepare his mother for the
disappointment that was sure to follow.  His father
would be angry and derisive, but Fox was accustomed to
that.  His mother's pain concerned him more.

She was waiting for him and he kissed her on the cheek
before taking his seat.  Edgar poured coffee for both.

"She's a lovely, lovely girl," Mother announced.  "She
sent me a note.  One for you as well, naturally."

"What did she say?" Fox asked, keeping his voice calm.

"Why, I was waiting for you, dear.  We can read them
together."

He ripped the envelope in his haste to open it. 
Diana's handwriting was sure and bold.

   Dear Fox,

   I'm overwhelmed with remorse and embarrassment.  
   I beg you to forgive me.

   Perhaps it is unreasonable, but I pray you find 
   it in your heart to allow our friendship to endure,
   despite my unpardonable display.  I've felt so 
   alone since Hirum died, and the depth of my feelings 
   for you led me to deceive myself that you might feel 
   the same way about me.  I now understand that you 
   do not, and never will.

   I ask you for one great indulgence.  I was foolish 
   and made no secret of my infatuation, and now I  
   cannot bear for the whole world to know that I gave 
   you my heart, and you cast it aside.  I would be 
   forever in your debt if you would allow me the public 
   charade of your affection for a very short period.  

   Our courtship will be brief and end with our mutual
   decision to part ways.  I hesitate to ask so much of
   you, but I know you to be a generous and honorable 
   man.

   Yours in friendship,

   Diana

Fox read it twice, afraid at first that he had
misunderstood.  But Diana's request was very clear,
and it meant his salvation.

"Your face gives you away, Fox.  You really do love
her," Mother said.

"Is it that plain?" he asked, feeling like an actor in
a play.

"Your apprehension before you read her note, and then
your relief," Mother said.  

"And what did she say to you?" 

"She hopes to become closer to the family.  And she's
proposing me for the executive board of the Orchid
Society."  She beamed.

"Her powers know no bound," Fox noted dryly.

Mother eyed him shrewdly.

"I don't envy you, Fox, to live in such times."

"Really?  In most ways I count myself fortunate. 
Aeroplanes, moving pictures. . . "  He avoided mention
of motorcars, knowing she held them in low regard.  
Nor did he mention cameras, for which he was truly 
grateful.  The modern camera gave him the joy of the 
artist, which he would not have known otherwise.

Mother shook her head.

"Roosevelt was no better than a Democrat, and Taft may
prove worse.  He's talking about a government tax on
income, Fox, can you imagine?  Our world is changing,
and not for the better."
 
"You'll always have the Orchid Society," he said with
a grin.  Mother smiled back, her dark mood broken.

"You always were impertinent, young man.  Your father
has given you the morning off, you know."

Fox's quick wit told him to speak now before she could
saddle him with some blindingly dull social
obligation.

"I have an errand downtown.  There's a property I want
to see," he said quickly.

"Pity.  I thought we might inquire about the purchase
of one of those automobiles."

"Mother, you surprise me," Fox said, placing his hands
over his heart.  "You always referred to automobiles as
'those wretched smoke-belching abominations'."

"Well, we can't be the only family on Fifth Avenue who
doesn't own one, can we?" his mother said, with a coy
smile. 

Fox promised her his participation at another time,
and set off on his "errand."

He had dressed casually, but he knew that his clothes
would be a noticeable departure for Mathew Fox.  He
hoped he had become a familiar enough figure around
the slums that the change wouldn't matter.  Then he
could dispense with the increasingly complicated
business of his secret wardrobe switches.  Besides,
it had gotten too warm for his peacoat.

As for Katie, he'd tell her the truth if she asked.  
That he had decided to dress better.

He stopped first at Penazek's.

"Mr. Fox!  I know what you want!" Anna greeted him. 
Her father was scooping dried beans from a barrel 
into a wooden bin.  

"How could you know that?" Fox asked.  Anna never
tired of the game

"You always buy the same thing."

"I do?  Then today I'll buy some elephants."

Anna was delighted.

"We don't have any elephants," she giggled.

Fox contorted his face to grotesque, despairing
sorrow.  Even Penazek gave a snort of amusement.

"Just one?  A little one?" Fox asked.

"We don't have any elephant at all."

"I don't care if it's fresh," he said.

"We have roasted sunflower seeds," the girl said.  
"And they're fresh because papa roasted them this 
morning."

Fox sighed.

"OK." 

"Mr. Fox, I remember something," Penazek said
suddenly.  "Anna, go upstairs, tell Mr. Frohike 
the picture man is here."

Melvin Frohike lived above the grocery.  The intense
little man was a newspaper reporter who boldly
described himself as "muckraker extraordinaire."

Months ago, Fox had taken a photo of little Anna 
peering through the front window of the grocery
store.  When Anna had proudly shown Frohike the 
photograph, the little man had seen something of 
Fox's ability to frame a photo and illuminate the
subject.  He'd arranged a meeting with Fox and 
asked for several photos to show his editors.

Fox had only a few minutes to wait until Frohike
bounded through the front door behind Anna.

"Mathew Fox, I've been looking for you!  You're a
hard man to reach."

Fox smiled, extending a hand in greeting.  "I've
been busy with a few things."

"I owe you some money," Frohike said, digging in his
pocket.  

"I can't imagine how, Frohike.  I'm very sure I'd
never lend you a penny."

"Quite the jokester, aren't you, longshanks.  Just for
that, I should keep this to myself."

Frohike held up a check.  It was made out to Mathew
Fox in the amount of $5.00.  

"The Atlantic Monthly?" Fox asked, awestruck as he 
snatched the check out of Frohike's hands.  

"Yes, you untalented wretch.  For some inexplicable
reason, they liked that photograph you took of the
three factory girls leaving work on a Saturday night."

Fox remembered the photo well.  He'd caught the three
young women walking arm in arm, full of laughter and 
the joy of youth and the prospect of a whole Sunday to 
themselves.  He'd called it "Quitting Time."

"I sold a photograph," Fox said, softly.  "I actually
sold a photograph."

"They want to see more."

"I've got more," Fox replied.  "I've got plenty more."

"Good.  Well, you know where to find me," Frohike said,
clapping Fox on the shoulder.  "Now get to work and take
more pictures."

"I will.  Have no doubt about that, but first--I want 
to celebrate."

"You gonna celebrate with Katie?" Anna asked.  She'd been
hanging on every word of the conversation.  In a stage 
whisper, she told Frohike, "Mr. Fox has a girl."

"A great skinny lunkhead like you has a girl?  Well, I 
guess there's hope for all of us."  

Fox bid them all goodbye and practically flew the few
blocks to the settlement house.  He found Katie in an
empty classroom, putting a rather lifelike baby doll
in a box.  

"Mathew!" she exclaimed with a smile.  "I didn't expect
to see you today."

With a glance at the door, he grabbed her by the arms
and kissed her soundly.  

"Mathew Fox," she laughed.  "I don't know what has 
gotten into you."

"I'm rich!" he replied, pulling the check out of his
pocket.  "Rich as Rockefeller.  I sold a picture." 

"Five dollars," she said.  "Oh my goodness, it's
from the Atlantic Monthly.  This is wonderful, Mathew."

"I want to celebrate," he said.  "Let's go somewhere."

"I really should complete the supply inventory.  And I..."

He stopped her with another kiss, this time without 
caring if anyone saw him.  "You're coming with me to 
Coney Island and we're going to ride all the rides and 
see all the sights and eat cotton candy.  The supply 
inventory can wait."

"You're very bossy when you have money in your pocket,
aren't you?" she asked, laughing.  "All right.  I'll 
be ready in a few minutes."

Katie Scully may have been the only girl in all of New 
York City who said she'd be ready in a few minutes and 
meant it.  He'd barely settled in a chair when she 
presented herself before him, a trim little straw hat 
perched on her rich auburn hair.  

After a visit to Rosenbloom's Pawnshop to cash Fox's 
check, they left for the beach.  Katie fussed at him to 
be careful with such a large sum of money.  

The streetcar ride to Coney Island was long enough for
Fox to fantasize about Katie in a bathing suit. Of 
course, Katie would be almost as covered up in a swimming 
suit as she was in her high-necked shirtwaist and
floor-length skirt.  Still, maybe he might catch a 
glimpse of stocking covered ankle.  Unfortunately, this
early in the season it was too cold to go swimming.  
He'd have to wait for his glimpse.

"I haven't been back since Steeplechase Park was rebuilt,"
Katie said, craning her neck to see out the streetcar
window. 

"I've never been to Coney Island," Fox confessed.  His family 
had summered in Newport every year since he was a child.  In
truth, he'd probably have been happier spending Sundays at
Coney Island than suffering the stiff social life of boring
tennis games and tea dances.  

"You've never been?  Oh, Mathew, that's so sad."  Katie was
looking at him the way she did every time he ate a meal in 
her presence.  Fox was convinced that Katie worried about him
and thought he was deprived.  

"I've been to lots of other places, Katie," he said, 
smiling at her.  "I just never went to Coney Island."

"Well, I'm going to show you around.  Should we start 
with Luna Park?  We can take a 'Trip to the Moon' there.  
Or should we go to Steeplechase?"

"The moon first," Fox said.  "Definitely, the moon."

They walked through the massive archway that led to Luna 
Park and Fox paid the fifty cents that admitted both of 
them to the "Trip to the Moon" ride.  Once aboard the 
"ship" that would carry them to the moon, Fox put his 
arm around Katie's shoulders.  They gasped as the craft 
appeared to rise in the air.  When the ship seemed to 
pass through a storm complete with lightning and fierce 
rain, Katie tucked into his side, covering her face with 
one hand.  Fox was in ecstasy.  

He was delighted at the appearance of midget moon men, 
leading them through the fairy land that comprised the 
moon.  Katie giggled with excitement at the sight of 
moon maidens offering them green cheese.

A moment later, they passed through a "moon calf's" 
enormous open mouth and found themselves standing in 
the bright sunlight of Luna Park.  

"How marvelous!" Fox exclaimed.  "Where to next?"

"The Shoot the Chute," she replied.  "Over there!"  

They rode the Chute, getting quite wet in the process 
as the boat flew down a huge slide into the lake.  
Laughing, they wandered until Katie noticed the sign 
for "Dr. Couney's Baby Incubator Exhibit."  

"Amazing," Katie said, gazing at the tiny pink and blue
beribboned babies.  "Imagine such tiny babies surviving.  
If the equipment didn't keep them warm, they'd die.  
Still, it seems wrong  somehow to put them on display 
like this."

Fox pointed out that at least they had a chance to live.  
He was very glad, though, to get out of the incubator 
building.  
 
They rode the Helter Skelter and the Tickler before 
growing hungry.  They decided to venture past the gates 
of the park in search of sustenance.   At Feltman's, 
they enjoyed lunch under the maple trees in a Bavarian 
Beer Garden.  

Stuffed with grilled clams and emboldened by a few beers, 
Fox and Katie wandered along the boardwalk, hand in hand.

Only a few hardy souls had actually ventured into the water
on this bright spring day.  Women with parasols and men in
boater hats strolled along the boardwalk.  A few families
stood at the water's edge, their children playing in the 
sand.

"In a few weeks, you won't find a square foot of sand  
not covered by a bather.  The water gets so crowded--people
are elbow to elbow," Katie said as they stood at the 
railing, looking out at the water.  

"Less chance of drowning, I guess," Fox offered.  

"I love the sea," Katie said, wistfully.  "It's so powerful 
and mysterious.  Did I ever tell you that my father was
a man of the sea?"

"No, I don't think so.  You haven't talked much about your 
family."  He knew her father was dead, but he couldn't 
remember if Katie had told him, or if he'd heard it from 
Charlie.  Fox recognized that he was in danger of slipping 
up, and decided to keep quiet.

"He was a fisherman.  His boat went down off Long Island a 
year ago.  I think he always knew something would happen to
him--he and Ma bought a small boarding house so she'd have 
an income in case..."

"I'm sorry," he said, slipping an arm around her.  "Were
you close?"

"I loved him.  I know he loved me.  I just don't think
we ever saw eye to eye."

"Sometimes that's how it is with fathers," Fox offered.  
 
"He was so angry when I wanted to be a nurse.  He thought
only rough women became nurses.  My sister married a weak
fellow who was never able to keep a job and I think Da 
wanted me to do better--to marry a steady man who'd take 
good care of me.  He was terribly disappointed, I'm afraid.  
Said I had a lot of fool ideas."

"People think things are foolish when they don't understand 
them."  

Katie turned to him and smiled, nodding.  "Have you ever 
heard Emma Goldman speak?" she asked.  

"No.  I've read some of her writings, though."

"I attended a lecture two years ago.  She was a nurse, you 
know," Katie said, with a sidelong look.  "I was impressed 
by some of what she said, but mostly by her passion and 
strength.  Da called her a dirty anarchist.  He laughed at 
me when I told him I agreed with some of her views."

"Which ones?" Fox asked.

"That sexuality shouldn't hinge on something as arbitrary
as marriage--that people should express their love for one
another in whatever way they wish to.  Da said I was a 
fool, that I didn't know anything about love or passion."

"He was wrong," Fox said.

"No, I think he was right.  I didn't know anything about
love then," she said, turning to him.  Her eyes were bright 
with tears as she reached up to touch his face.  

"I want to take every bad thing that's ever happened to
you and make it go away," Fox said.  "I've never felt this
way about anyone before.  It's as if I've been waiting my
whole life to meet you."  

His heart felt as if it was going to burst in his chest
as Katie pressed against him, her arms encircling his waist.

"I feel the same way," she said, pulling away from him.  
"Come on.  It's too crowded here."

Katie took his hand, drawing him down the boardwalk to the
steps that lead to the beach.  His knees were unsteady as
they walked down the steps.  

She drew him into the shadows under the boardwalk.  They
glanced up, smiling, at the sounds of footsteps above.  Fox
tipped Katie's face up, leaning down to press a kiss on her
soft lips.  They'd kissed before, but the kisses were always
hurried, one eye on the door in case someone came upon them.

Now he kissed her deep and hard.  Katie wound her arms around
his neck, standing on tiptoe in the sand as she returned each
caress, each kiss.  Fox wasn't sure where this was leading
but he was more than willing to hang on for the ride.  
Katie's warm, pliant body was pressed against his.  He 
stumbled back, finally bracing himself against a pylon.

"Hey youse!  This is a public beach.  None a that funny
business."

Fox and Katie sprang apart at the intrusion of a burly cop
banging on the wood above their heads with his night stick.

"Pardon us, Officer," Fox said, quickly.  "We...just got 
carried away."

"Well, I can unnerstand that," the cop said, eyeing Katie
with open appreciation.  "But ya can't do that here.  Now
go on wit ya."

Katie was blushing madly, and Fox was sure she was going to 
burst into tears of embarrassment.  But as soon as the cop 
left, he heard her peals of laughter instead.  If he hadn't 
loved her already, that would have been reason enough to 
fall in love.

Fox took Katie's hand and led her out from the shadows.  

"Come on," he said.  "I hear the parks are amazing after 
the sun goes down.  Let's go back and ride some more until 
it gets dark."

It was true--at night, Luna Park was illuminated by 
250,000 electric light bulbs.  A recreated Venice, each
arch and curve lined by lights, extended before them.  
Fox took Katie on a gondola ride down a Grand Canal that
was spanned by an illuminated Bridge of Sighs.  

Finally, it was time to go home.  They had to run in order
to catch the streetcar, Fox lifting Katie onto the
moving car, then jumping on himself.  Holding onto the
hanging straps, they stood until the streetcar made its 
first stop and some passengers got off.  Finally finding 
two seats together, Fox put his arm around a yawning Katie 
who settled her head on his shoulder.

Finally, they arrived at the stop near the settlement house
and Fox walked Katie home.  

"I wish I could ask you in," she said, shyly as they reached
the front of the settlement house.  "My little brother is 
coming by in the morning to go to seven o'clock Mass with me."

"I will have to dream of you, then.  Good night, sweet 
Katie," he said, leaning down to kiss her.  He didn't 
look around to see if anyone was watching.  He wanted
everyone to know that Katie Scully was his girl. 

With a final wave, Fox set off for home.  He could barely
feel his feet on the pavement with each step.  It was
probably for the best that they parted tonight.  This was
huge.  Enormous.  Momentous.  They both needed to sleep on
this incredible new development.

Just to know Katie Scully was an honor.  To talk to
her was a privilege.  To hold her in his arms and kiss
her and feel her kissing him back with a fervor full
of selfless passion was a gift beyond measure.  

Fox had lived his whole life in poverty, but tonight he
was rich.  As Shayna Berkowitz would say, "Who knew?"

Mother and Father were in for quite a jolt.  As soon
as his "engagement" to Diana could be played out and
ended, he would introduce them to his real intended. 
It would be a jolt, but they'd survive, and once they
came to know Katie, they would have to love her.  It
was impossible for anyone to do otherwise.

Katie was in for a shock or two herself, of course. 
He had told her that he had a "good job."  He told her
he'd grown up in a comfortable home.  She knew more
about his hopes, dreams and fears than any other
person on earth, but she didn't know his name.

He neared his house, wondering which door to use.  The
front entrance might bring him past his parents, but
he should save the servant's entrance for when he
really needed it.

As it happened, he used neither, because Walter
Skinner was waiting for him, watching from the other
side of Fifth Avenue.

"Mulder!" he called, then trotted across the street.

"Hello, Skinner!  Taking the air on this beautiful
night?"  

"We have to talk.  But not here."

Fox knew a number of establishments that were open
late, but Skinner led him to an unassuming local bar. 
They took a table near the back.

"I know about Miss Scully," Skinner said.

"I'm glad," said Fox, sincerely.  He was bursting with
the need to share his joy.

"You're not to see her again.  Ever.  I'll help you
write her a letter and I'll deliver it myself."

"Listen carefully."  Fox leaned forward.  "I love her.
She loves me.  My father and mother have nothing to
say about it, and you may tell them I said so."

Skinner shook his head.

"Your parents don't know about her.  I told your
father you were with friends.  At shows, at
restaurants."

"Very good.  That's one less problem for now," Fox
said.

"You *listen* to me when I talk to you, you arrogant
puppy!"

"Skinner?"  

"I'm ordering you to break it off with Miss Scully.  Me. 
Your servant.  The nonentity who raised you and tried
to make a man out of you, but failed miserably."  

"That's quite enough."

"You don't understand about girls like Katie.  I know
she's not from your own class, but she is nothing like
your chorus girls.  She is a hardworking, serious
girl, and she takes love seriously, too."

"And you think I don't?"

"I *know* you don't.  You sent me to collect your things 
from Sheila Fontaine and you pensioned her off.  Then 
immediately you set your sites on her successor, but what 
you don't understand is that Miss Scully isn't like that."

Skinner's bald head was glowing red.  

"You're still angry about Sheila," Fox said.  Skinner
had been difficult about going to pick up Fox's coat
and camera from the chorus girl's home, and Fox had
insisted.

"You insufferable snot.  You can't begin to understand
what I'm trying to tell you."

"Mind your words, Skinner, and don't presume on our
friendship."

"Friendship?"

Skinner glared at Fox with contempt, and then he
slapped him.

Some autonomous part of Fox's brain let him return the
slap before he had truly registered the affront.

"You're fired.  Now, let's finish this outside," Fox
said.

"I don't think you can fire me.  Consider this my
resignation."

Skinner's hand came up again but this time Fox caught
his wrist.

"Outside," he repeated.

They walked down a side street.  There was no sign of
life at this late hour.  Fox removed his jacket and
hung it over an iron railing, and Skinner did the
same.  Skinner removed his glasses and placed them in
the pocket.

"OK, little man.  Take a swing."

Many years ago Skinner had taught Fox that if you're
going to punch a man in the face, you should aim for
his nose.  Now Fox took his stance and considered that
Skinner would expect that of him.

And the glasses.  Skinner was inviting him to go for
the face.

Instead Fox went for the gut, landing a perfect
combination that made him think he might just take the
old egghead after all.

"Not bad, boy, but you have to be quicker."

Skinner used the same move against him, but harder and
more relentless, a series of blows so that Fox was
doubled over before he could regroup himself and take
another swing.

With his next effort, fist crunched against cartilage.
Skinner groaned as blood began to drip from his nose.

"That's enough of that," Skinner said calmly.  He
delivered his punches in a measured staccato, landing
nothing below the belt or above the neck.  

It was over in a couple of minutes, with Fox on the
ground, winded and furious.  

"You'll write her the letter when we get home,"
Skinner said.

"No, I won't," Fox said, struggling back to his feet. 
He was very close to vomiting.  If he couldn't hold it
back, he would aim for Skinner's shoes.

"You have your pick of a million girls.  Don't ruin
this one."

"I won't ruin her.  I love her."

"You don't even know her."

"She loves me, too."

"She doesn't even know your name."

"She knows everything about me that matters."

"Mulder, if you don't write that letter, I'll have to
hit you again."

"You think you know everything, about me, about her--"

"Last chance."

Skinner's confidence enraged him.

"You upstart--"

Skinner's fist to his jaw ended his exclamation, and
this time, instead of crumpling to the ground he went
down hard.

"An upstart.  One who betters himself," Skinner said.

The pain in Fox's jaw echoed to his head and down his
neck.  Sparks of light danced before his eyes.

"One who graduates from Penn State, rather than
Harvard, working two jobs to do it.  One who accepts a
position that lets him travel, and covers his room and
board.  Even if he does have to tend to a sniveling
boy who cowers whenever his father speaks."

"I don't care if you're Horatio Alger, I'll never give
her up," Fox said, barely moving his jaw.  

"If you really knew her, you'd understand that she
will never be yours."  Skinner reached down a hand.

"If I get up, are you going to hit me again?" Fox
asked.

"If I have to, but I can hit you down there as well."

Fox let Skinner haul him to his feet.

"You've been spying on me," he said.  "You've followed
me on my father's orders, and if you didn't tell him
what you learned, you've betrayed us both."

"You came home with a fat lip.  Your father reminded
me that my generous salary was supposed to insure
against such unfortunate occurrences," Skinner said.

"Then you started sniffing around, asking questions
about Katie."

"That would be despicable.  I spoke to the young lady
myself," Skinner said.

"You had no right," Fox said.

"We've already established that I'm an upstart."

"Yes, and I'm an insufferable snot.  You still had no
right."

Skinner picked up his jacket and put on his glasses.

"I'm not the one who lied to her.  I told her my name.
I told her I worked for a well-known businessman with
an interest in philanthropy.  She told me about the
settlement house.  She told me about babies starving
for want of milk, and families freezing because they
can't spare a penny for some coal.  Your father, in
fact, made a significant donation.  He doesn't go down
to gawk at the poor, but he's generous in more
substantial ways."

Fox put on his jacket and handed his handkerchief to
Skinner, to hold against his bloody nose.  

"She's beautiful, isn't she?" Fox asked.  "She's kind,
and strong and brilliant.  Sure in her convictions,
fearless against her adversaries."

"Willing to persevere against impossible
circumstances," Skinner added.

Fox felt great pity for his tutor, and not for his
meager purse.

"I know I don't deserve her, but she loves me anyway,
and I love her too.  You don't have to tell me she's
not like my chorus girls, I know that myself.  She's
like nobody else, and I want to marry her.  Whatever
she wants, that's what I want for her, and I'll never
hurt her, or let anyone else hurt her."

Skinner looked at him over the bloody handkerchief.

He loves her too, Fox thought.  I know it, and he
knows that I know.

"See that you don't.  Because next time you won't walk
away," Skinner said.

Fox fingered his tender jaw as they walked home.  

"I tried not to mark your face," Skinner said.

"Did I break your nose?" Fox asked.

Skinner shook his head.

"I'll be fine by morning.  You'll look fine, but
you'll feel like you've been kicked by a mule."

"Well, I was . . . in a sense."

They climbed the steps, careful not to make a racket
with their shoes, falling silent as they neared the 
door.  Fox opened it an inch at a time, barely breathing. 
They tiptoed across the foyer, and--

"Fox, is that you?" Mother's voice rang out from the
library.

"Doesn't anybody sleep any more?" Fox asked.

Teena was wearing a mauve brocade dressing gown, but
she was very much awake.

"Good lord, Mr. Skinner, what happened to you?" she
asked.

"Muggers," Fox said quickly.

"Oh, dear," she said.

"They made the mistake of taking your son for an easy
mark," Skinner said.  "Forgetting that I was there to
protect him."

"Thank goodness you were," said Teena.  "Come along
and I'll get you cleaned up."

"I'm fine, really," Skinner said.

"Nonsense.  You were attacked by ruffians."
  
She led him away by the arm, Fox feeling smug as he
followed them to the library.  Mother rang up her
maid, Lucy, to bring a basin and some rags and then 
insisted on tending to Skinner's face with her own 
hands.

"Does it hurt?" Fox inquired solicitously as Teena
scrubbed.

"It's nothing," Skinner said as he grimaced.  "I find
blows to the body are far more painful."

"You're home so late, Fox, and we have a full schedule
tomorrow," Mother said.

"Unfortunately, Mother, I won't be able to join you,"
Fox said.

"The Schuylers and, of course, your Diana, have
invited us for an early luncheon after church,"
she continued blithely.

"I'm sure they will understand if I send my regrets,"
Fox said.

"To the contrary, Diana sent word that she counted on
you to be there.  She said you had promised as much."

Fox felt Skinner's eyes on him.  Skinner knew nothing
about his arrangement with Diana; there hadn't been a
moment to explain it.

"Since she seems to feel so strongly about it, I
suppose I will have to attend," Fox said.

"And you, Mr. Skinner, you're practically one of the
family.  Would you care to join us?"

"Thank you for your kindness, but I must decline. 
I'll be busy myself, after church.  There's a young
lady I hope to see."

At last Mother completed her ministrations and
retired.  Skinner sat very still, examining Fox as 
if he was a particularly ugly cockroach.

"I can explain," Fox said.

"You're beneath contempt.  As soon as I can tender my
resignation to your father, I'm going to fulfill one
final obligation and break your legs."

"It's a sham, Skinner.  Diana asked me to play along
so she could break the engagement without public
embarrassment.  Look, here's the letter she wrote."
Fox drew it from his pocket, where it had rested since
breakfast time.

Skinner absorbed the contents in a glance.

"You dupe.  She'll never let you go.  She'll lead you
step by step till your ring's on her finger."

"It's only for a week or two," Fox explained.

"I should thrash you just for being so stupid.  She's
got you hooked right and proper, and you can't even
see it.

*******************************************


Forgive Us Our Trespasses - Katie Scully's story, part 5

"Dominus vobiscum," Father McCue intoned.  

"Et cum spiritu tuo." 

Katie Scully straightened her spine and tried
to concentrate on the Gospel of St. John.  The
reading was one of her favorites, about the many
mansions in the Father's house.  Unfortunately,
her mind refused to obey and kept straying back
to Mathew Fox's face.  

It was, surely, a sin to be thinking such thoughts
at Sunday Mass, Katie admonished herself.  But no
matter how hard she tried to pay attention to the
priest's words, all she could think about was what
it felt like when Mathew kissed her.  His lips were
so pliant and soft, his arms so strong as they held
her tight.  She'd behaved like a wanton, pressing
herself to his hard body.  Katie bit down on the 
inside of her cheek in an attempt to focus.  

No matter how many reservations she had about 
the Church, the teachings of childhood were bone
deep and Katie stood and knelt and made the 
sign of the cross in all the right places.  Katie
was grateful when it was time to sit for Father
McCue's homily.  After walking all over Luna Park
yesterday, her feet were sore.

She glanced over at Charlie, smiling at his mop
of russet curls.  On Katie's other side, Maggie
Scully listened intently to the priest.  Maggie
was crafty, ensuring her daughter's attendance at
Mass by sending the one person Katie could never
say no to--little Charlie.

Like most Irish Catholic children, Katie had grown
up with the Church as a constant in her life.  She'd
attended faithfully, believed without question, and
prepared, along with the other boys and girls, to 
receive the sacraments.  

But as she grew up, Katie began to see her church as
unyielding and harsh.  Mary O'Malley's brutal husband
broke her nose, knocked out four teeth and wrenched
her shoulder out of its socket and the priest 
instructed her that her place was with her husband.
Kathleen Sullivan refused to name her unborn baby's
father and the church turned its back on both her
and the child.  

As Katie became more aware of the trials of the 
women around her, she found herself more and more
disappointed in a church that did little to offer
comfort or help.  By the time she was fifteen, Katie
attended church only to please her mother.

Katie followed the congregation as they knelt, 
watching Father McCue as he prayed over the host.
When it came time for Holy Communion, Katie stayed
behind in the pew, earning a disapproving look from 
Maggie Scully.

After Mass, Katie and Charlie stood under a tree, 
waiting for their mother to chat with some of her 
neighbors. Finally, Maggie joined her family.  

"That's a new hat you're wearing, isn't it Katie?" 
she asked.  "It's quite fetching."  

Katie's hand flew to her head, touching the brim of 
her smart little straw hat.  Trimmed with navy 
grosgrain ribbon and a bunch of bright red cherries, 
it was nothing like Katie's usual practical, serviceable 
clothes.

"It's new," Katie admitted.  She knew where this was
leading and it made her decidedly uncomfortable.

"You know, I can't remember the last time you spent
money on anything that wasn't for the settlement 
house."

"Katie's gotta fella," Charlie chimed in, dancing 
ahead of his sister's pinching fingers.  

"Now, that can't possibly be true," Maggie said.  
"Katie would surely tell her mother if she was 
keepin' company with someone."

"How is Mrs. Conway feeling these days?" Katie said.

"Changing the subject, are you?" Maggie said.   
"Well, all right.  You be telling us when you're 
ready, I expect.  So, will we be seeing you for dinner?  
I have a nice chicken to roast."

And an eager Tom Colton would probably be there.  Her 
brother, Bill, still hadn't given up, no matter how firmly
Katie tried to convince him that she had no interest in 
his friend.  

Besides, she was hoping Mathew would come around for a
visit.  Something amazing had happened between them, 
something that both frightened and excited her.  She'd
been relieved when he'd accepted her excuse about early
morning Mass.  If he'd come in the house with her, she
wasn't sure she would have been able to deny her need
or his.   

"Come on, Katie.  Ma made apple pie, too."

Katie lifted her brother's cap and ruffled his hair.  
"Maybe," she said.  "I have some work to do back at
the settlement house.  I'll have to see how it goes."

With a pointed look, Maggie Scully nodded.  "Come if
you want.  I'm not waiting dinner, though.  It'll be on 
the table at noon--same as always."  

Maggie and Charlie set off back to Clinton Street, the
boy turning to wave at his sister.  

Katie walked the four blocks from St. Brigid's to the
settlement house, thinking about Mathew Fox every step 
of the way.  She'd felt a connection to this young man
from the first time she'd laid eyes on him as he 
snapped her picture.  Katie'd been impressed by the 
sheer audacity of the man--the chutzpah, as Shayna
would say.  An air of confidence was about him,
as if everything had always come easy.

Every day, Katie met adults who struggled for every
mouthful of food and fought for survival.  They all had 
the same look about them--something that Mathew was 
blessedly free of.  It was apparent that Mathew had 
grown up in comfortable circumstances.  He spoke with 
perfect diction, and his manners were impeccable. 

But Katie wasn't sure how easy things really were for
Mathew, at least in his present life.  His clothes were
shabby and hung on his frame as if they belonged to a 
larger man.   She worried that he didn't take care of
himself.  Katie was sure Mathew didn't get enough to eat, 
for one thing.

As she walked up the path to the front door, Katie pushed
back a tiny scrap of disappointment.  Somewhere deep down, 
she'd hoped to find Mathew lounging on the front stoop, 
but no one waited for her.

She opened the door and drew out the long pin that 
anchored her smart new hat to her hair.  Katie carefully
placed the hat on a small table at the base of the stairs.

The supplies weren't going to inventory themselves, she
thought as she unbuttoned and folded her cuffs over twice.  
Katie retrieved her record book from the desk in the 
front hall and went into the kitchen.

Pulling a green apron down from a hook, Katie wrapped  
it around herself.  The house had been a grand home at one 
time, though it had grown a little worn through the years.  

Still, she had the marvelous big kitchen to herself when 
the house was empty.  Katie turned up the heat under the 
leftover coffee and went into the large pantry that housed 
the settlement house's emergency food supply.

With her inventory book open, Katie counted the canned
goods and bags of dried beans, flour and rice.  She looked 
up at the knock on the back door.

"Yoo hoo!  Katie?"  Shayna Berkowitz called out.  "I
thought I saw you in here when I was hanging out clothes. 
What are you doing, working in the house on such a 
beautiful day?"

"Good morning to you, Shayna," Katie answered, calmly.

"Why aren't you out with that young man of yours?  I
see him here morning, noon and night.  So, where is he 
today when he could be taking you out for a nice
pic-a-nic?"

"Shayna!" Katie said.  "You're full of questions this
morning.  And Mathew is not here all the time.  He
comes by once in a while to visit."

"Once in a while to visit.  That's a good one, Katie.
Tell me another story," Shayna said, laughing.  

"Do you want some coffee?" Katie asked, fighting back
a smile.  She turned down the heat before it was burnt.  

"I can't stay," Shayna said.  "I left Izzy watching 
his little brothers and I don't trust the three of
them not to tear the house down around their ears."

Katie bade her farewell and went back to her inventory.
She moved on to the school rooms, recording the counts
on books and pencils.  It might have gone more quickly
if she hadn't stopped to listen for Mathew every few 
minutes.  

When the knock came at the front door, Katie hugged
herself, smiling.  He was here.  Mathew had come.

She flung off the apron and straightened her skirt as
the hurried to the front door.  Smoothing her hair with 
a quick hand, she opened the door.  

The face on the other side of the door wasn't Mathew's.
Her heart sank, but she managed to force a smile for
her visitor.

"Mr. Skinner," she said.  "What a lovely surprise."

"I fear you're disappointed, Miss Scully."

"How could I be disappointed.  After the wonderful
things your employer's donation has accomplished,
I feel only gladness."

"I took a chance that I'd find you in," he said.
"After all, it's a fine day and I'm sure you have
plans."

"No," she said, hoping she didn't appear too 
crestfallen.  "No plans."

"I was wondering if we might take a walk," her
visitor said.  Katie nodded and Mr. Skinner said
he'd wait for her on the stairs.  As she fetched
her shawl, Katie reflected on how much easier it
would be if a young woman could receive a male 
business guest without worrying about her 
reputation.  

Walter Skinner had first come to the settlement   
house weeks ago, at the behest of his wealthy 
employer.  The rich were often generous, but in
her experience, it was generosity without 
contact.  They didn't mind sharing a small percentage
of their fortune--they just didn't want to soil
their hands in the process.

But it was different with Mr. Skinner.  Granted, 
his wealthy employer managed to keep his hands 
clean, but Walter Skinner had wanted to know about
the needs of the people that used the settlement 
house.  He wanted details--no matter how ugly they
might be.  It had touched and heartened her to
speak with him.

More than just his interest in the poor, Mr. Skinner
had taken the time to get to know her and some 
of the other staff and regulars at the settlement
house.  He sat in the kitchen, drinking tea and
eating Shayna's rugelach.  He'd asked about Katie's
life, her nurse's training and listened to her
opinions.

They set out down the street, Skinner slowing his
pace to allow her to keep up.  She took a good
look at him, noting that his nose appeared a
bit swollen and red.  He looked as if he hadn't
slept well, either.

"I'm glad you came by, Mr. Skinner," she said. "I
wanted to tell you some of the wonderful things 
that we've been able to do with the funds your
employer provided."

"I'd like that very much," he replied.    

"There's a little boy born with a deformity of 
the foot--a clubfoot.  A doctor I know at Bellevue 
was able to arrange an operation for him.  They say 
he's healing well and may walk normally by the fall.   
I can't begin to tell you how grateful his parents 
are."

"I'm so glad," he said.  "I was wondering, Miss 
Scully, if you would be so kind as to let me take 
you to lunch?" he asked.  

Katie's breath caught in her throat.  Oh, dear, 
she thought, this was certainly going to be awkward.  
She must have missed something in Mr. Skinner's visits.
He'd always seemed so formal and businesslike.  It 
wasn't that he was unattractive--much to the contrary.  
Mr. Skinner had quite nice eyes behind his spectacles 
and though he appeared older due to his baldness, 
Katie realized he wasn't much past thirty.  But her 
heart was no longer free.  She had to decline in a 
way that wouldn't hurt him.

"I...I don't know what to say," she finally blurted
out.  "I'm afraid I'm not free at the moment.  I'm
so sorry."

"No need to apologize, Miss Scully," Skinner said 
after an awkward moment.  "Maybe another time."

"Yes.  Yes, perhaps another time," she agreed, 
relieved that she'd avoided offending him.  

"I believe, Miss Scully, that we have a friend in 
common."

"We do?"  

"Yes.  I believe you know a Mathew Fox."  There was
something almost grave about his pronunciation of
Mathew's name.

"We are acquainted," she said carefully.  "How do you 
know Mr. Fox?"

"I've known him for a very long time," Skinner answered.
"We...ah...we work for the same man.  In different 
capacities, of course."

"I see," she said, uncertainty creeping into her
voice.

"Miss Scully, I've come to have a great deal of 
respect and regard for you.  You're one of the 
finest persons I have ever had the privilege to 
know.  I...I don't want to see you hurt."

"Mr. Skinner, this doesn't make any sense," she
said.  "What makes you think Mr. Fox would want 
to hurt me?"

"It's not that he would hurt you intentionally.  
As I said, I've known him for a long time and
he isn't a bad person--not really.  It's just that
he's...unreliable.  You can't count on him, Miss
Scully."

"Mr. Skinner, I appreciate your concern, but I am
not a child.  I am quite able to make my own 
decisions and choose my own friends."  

"What do you really know of him?  Do you know where
he lives?  What he does all day?"

She was shaking with anger, her hands balled into fists 
at her sides.  If there was anything Katie Scully hated, 
it was being considered in need of protection.  Skinner
seemed pained, glancing away from her angry gaze.

"I think this has gone quite far enough, Mr. Skinner. 
My relationship with Mr. Fox is nothing you need to 
worry about."

"He's not coming by today, Miss Scully.  I'm not sure
he'll be back ever again."
 
"Thank you for your interest," she said.  "It seems I
have a previous engagement after all, so I must bid
you goodbye."

She turned her back and walked away as quickly as she
could without breaking into a run.  What an awful man,
she thought.    Maybe not entirely awful, when she
remembered all the good he'd done, but awful in the
things he said about Mathew.  And they worked for the
same man?  Katie was sure Mathew would explain it all
next time she saw him.

The settlement house was humming with activity when
she returned.  Dr. Diamond was setting up for his
citizenship class, and Mrs. Thibedeaux's little
Shakespeare Players had gathered to rehearse "Julius
Caesar."  Katie completed her inventory anyway.  With
all the distraction, the task required total
concentration.  

In short order the inventory was complete, and still
twenty minutes until noon. Katie decided she would go
to Sunday dinner after all.  Ma's apple pie was like
none other, and if Mathew came while she was out, he
would wait for her.  The settlement house would be
open until Dr. Diamond left at six, but Katie would be
back long before.

And if she stayed and waited, and Mathew didn't 
come...

Enough of that, she admonished herself.  She was
letting that awful Mr. Skinner fill her head with
doubts.  What did it matter where Mathew lived, or
what he did all day?  He had shown her his heart.

Ma's boarding house stood a trim three stories tall,
but it stood proud, like Maggie herself.  The rooms
were bright and airy with windows opening either onto
the street or onto the tiny, pampered garden at the
rear.  No suffocating pass-through rooms or stinking
air shafts for Maggie's boarders.

Like the house, the boarders themselves were "of the
better sort."  Maggie had plenty of sympathy for folks
down on their luck, but she prefered to wait until
their luck had turned before bringing them into her
home.   Her standards were slightly less rigid where
family was concerned.  Missy and her brood found
grudging shelter when the landlord put them on the
street.  

Katie held one nephew on her lap, as his little
brother napped in a pasteboard suitcase decked out 
as a crib.  She was glad for the presence of the 
boarders at the dinner table.  Maggie was forced to 
confine her questions and observations to the general. 
Unfortunately Katie's brother and sister lacked their
mother's sense of decorum.

"Charlie says you got a fella," Missy said, as she
helped herself to a golden brown drumstick.

"That's what Ma says," Charlie explained.  "But Bill
says you don't need a fella, 'cause his friend Tom is
ready to hitch up and drive away."  

"Yeah, just forget about love.  Marry 'im 'cause he's
Bill's best friend," Missy said.

"Love don't last.  A girl's gotta be ready to take
care of herself," said Doris Kearns, one of the
boarders.

Katie knew that the woman spoke from experience.

"With your bookkeeping skills, you'll always be
ready," Katie said.

It wasn't that Maggie shunned factory workers, but
their salaries wouldn't cover her rent.  Her boarders
tended to be office workers and craftsmen.

"Aye, keeping the books is a fine pursuit, clean and
dignified," said Maggie, eyeing her daughters
pointedly.

"Surely there's dignity in ministering to the ill and
infirm," said Charles Burkes, another boarder.  He
smiled at his landlady as he buttered his bread.

"Some of us may have different notions about dignity,"
Maggie sniffed.  

"Thank you, professor." Katie said, using his title to
remind her mother that Burkes was affiliated with the
venerable Columbia University.  

"Mr. Burkes has a laboratory all the way up north. 
Maybe one day he'll take me," Charlie piped in.

"Maybe he'll introduce you to Dr. Cook and Captain
Perry," Missy teased.  

"Morningside Heights, the land of the midnight sun,"
Mr. Burkes said, smiling at Charlie. 
 
"Men.  One minute they're where they belong, the next
they're off hunting for the North Pole," said Mrs.
Kearns.

"May the lord keep them from harm," said Maggie,
crossing herself.

"Please pass the chicken."  

That was Max Fenig.  From his position of dishonor at
the far end of the table, Katie gathered he was in
arrears.

"Now Mr. Fenig, you know the rules here," Maggie said.
"Don't be embarrassing yourself in front of the
others."

"Dmitri's home early today," Charlie said.  Dmitri was
Maggie's youngest boarder, scarcely older than Charlie
himself.  He was a waiter at Delmonico's, and many
nights he returned with a feast of exotic left-overs
from the famous restaurant.

"Have some more cabbage, Mr. Fenig," Katie offered, as
she passed the dish down the table.

"It's Sunday, Ma.  Maybe a wing?" Missy asked.

"Lady Bountiful, are ya?  Go to the kitchen then and
bring him the feet from the stock pot," her mother
answered.

"You kin have mine, Mr. Fenig.  Feets's my favorite,"
Charlie offered.  Katie would have been touched at his
kindness, but she knew he really did prefer the feet.

"We will all eat our own food and be thankful for it,"
Maggie said pointedly.

"Be thankful Billy's not here, or we'd all be hungry,"
Missy said, returning from the kitchen.

"A hard-working man needs a full belly," Maggie
answered.

"And where is that hard-working man?" Katie asked. 
She'd been too pleased by the absence to inquire
before.

"Got himself a contract.  Little favor for Big Tim
Sullivan," Charlie said, with pride.

"Teaching some greenhorns how to vote, I'd wager.  Or
showing a peddler where his pushcart don't belong,"
Missy said.

"Tim Sullivan takes care of the people, and it
wouldn't break your teeth to speak kindly of him,"
Maggie snapped. 

"Katie takes care of the people too, don't ya, Katie?"
Charlie asked her.

"I do try," she answered.

"Do ya now?  Then maybe you'll be the one takin' in
yer poor sister when her husband's off drinkin' up
their rent."

"Ma, the babies!" Missy protested.

Katie patted little Michael, who sucked his thumb and
nuzzled against her arm.  Snug in his makeshift bed,
Jimmy slept without stirring.

"Ack, the babies.  They don't understand a word."

"I'll pay everything I owe, Mrs. Scully.  It's the
slow season is all," Mr. Fenig said suddenly.

"Why then, that's what I'll tell the butcher and the
grocer.  And Mr. Graves at the bank, when me mortgage
is due.  'Tis the slow season."

"I work hard.  And I'm good, that's what they say. 
But... but then the work slows down, and..."  He
looked around the table, desperate for support.

"We know, Max," Charles Burkes said soothingly.  "Soon
the work will pick up, it always does."

"A pity your appetite doesn't slow down as well,"
Maggie said.

"Please, Mrs. Scully, you know how he gets," Doris
Kearns implored her.

"It's the Wobblies, m'am.  They shot McKinley, though
no one likes to talk about it.  And the San Francisco
earthquake--they done that too." Fenig was talking
faster, and sweat beaded on his forehead.

Somewhat belatedly, Maggie relented.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" she asked him.

"They want to silence me," he said in a shaky whisper.

Doris Kearns and Charles Burkes exchanged glances.

"Last week it was the Freemasons," she said.

"And the *General Slocum* up in flames, with all the
little children on board...  " His eyes filled with
tears.

"Well, then, no good in keening when the funeral's
moved on," Maggie said briskly.  "Katherine!  Go fetch
Mr. Fenig a nice cup of tea!"

Katie handed Michael back to his mother and went to
fix the tea.

Poor Mr. Fenig.  Da used to tell him not to worry when
the work was slow, his word was good enough.  Ma was
rougher.

Mr. Frohike, the newspaperman who taught American
history on Wednesday nights, had his own theory about
McKinley.  

"Always look to see who benefits," Mr. Frohike would say. 
"That's the first question to ask."

"I only hope you're not teaching your class that
President Teddy Roosevelt shot poor President
McKinley," she had retorted.

The water came to a boil and Katie brewed a pot of
tea.  And thanks to his display, Mr. Fenig would get
his slice of apple pie along with everyone else.  

Ma cut a huge wedge of pie to save for Bill, to the
groans of Charlie and his sisters.  She divided the
rest of the pie to serve the table.

"I'm a hard-working man myself," Charlie protested as
he eyed the slice on his plate.

Katie had to share her sliver with little Michael, who
toddled over and opened his mouth like a nestling
sparrow.  

"Don't you be feeding pie to the baby," Maggie
admonished her, but Katie wouldn't think of refusing
him.

Dessert was interrupted by someone pounding on the
door.

"Mrs. Scully?  Is Katie there?  Mama sent for her to
run right now to the Lurias'."

"That's Izzy Berkowitz," Katie explained, gently
disentangling herself from her nephew.  "I have to
go."

Ma raised an eyebrow at her.

"Bookkeeping.  Clean and dignified," she said with
finality.

Clean and dignified it might be, but there could be
nothing so satisfying as Katie's mission with the
Luria family.  The young parents were frantic with
worry over their baby, a three-month old girl too
exhausted to cry.

The mother asked anxiously about ice water to cool the
baby's fever, but Katie showed her how a gentle sponge
bath with cool water would work as well.  The father
was in a panic because the baby couldn't keep down her
food.

"Give her little tummy a rest, then.  But boil some
water and let it cool.  We'll see if she'll take a
spoon or two," Katie said.

The baby drank a bit of water and fell into a peaceful
sleep.

"When she wakes you can feed her, but not too much at
first."

"I don't have enough words to thank you," the mother
said.

"I'll be back tomorrow to see how she is.  But you
know how to find me if there's more fever or
vomiting," Katie told them.

Before she went home, she called on another patient
who lived in the building.  Daryl Mootz had a sore on
his foot that simply wouldn't heal, and Katie changed
the dressing for what seemed like the hundredth time. 

Katie was fortunate to have a doctor to work with, an
earnest young fellow named Vitigliano.  She'd asked
him to look at the stubborn wound, but he had no more
idea than she of how to cure it.

It was after six o'clock by the time she returned to 
the settlement house.  Dr. Diamond had left, but Mrs.
Thibedeaux was still in the common room, stitching 
braid she'd obviously scavenged from some discarded 
drapes onto a length of old sheet.

"Oh hello, Katie," Mrs. Thibedeaux said.  "Did you have
a nice afternoon out?"

"Lovely," Katie answered.  "I see you're wardrobe 
mistress as well as director."

"I think the cast will be able to get into character
a little better wearing togas.  Poor things, they're
having a devil of a time with the language."

"I can imagine," Katie laughed.  In fact, it was
almost painful to watch them struggle with their lines.
Some of the actors were still learning modern English, 
much less Shakespearean English. 

Katie helped Mrs. Thibedeaux stitch more togas before
the older woman stretched and groaned.  

"I'm going to have to call it a night," she said, 
wearily.  Mrs. Thibedeaux checked the tiny watch she
wore in a pendant around her neck.  "Oh dear, I had
no idea how late it had gotten.  It's nearly gone 
eight."

Mrs. Tibby, as her players fondly referred to her, 
packed her sewing into a satchel.  

"Good night, Mrs. Thibedeaux," Katie said as she walked
the woman to the door.  "Your players are very lucky to
have you."

And they were.  Poor Mrs. Tibby had buried a husband
and all her children.  The former teacher could have
given up on life--could have dwelled in her little house
and done nothing more, but she worked tirelessly to
help immigrants learn to speak better by introducing 
them to the Bard.

Katie was exhausted as she pushed the chairs back 
against the wall in the common room.  It had been a 
long and upsetting day and she wanted nothing more
than a warm bath and an early night.  She retrieved
her nightgown and slippers from her bedroom, and 
went into the kitchen.  Katie turned down the lamp,
leaving the kitchen bathed in soft, golden light.

She heated water on the massive stove in the 
kitchen.  Running water had been piped into the 
first floor and a flush toilet installed ten years 
before, but that was the extent of the modernization.  

After she checked the doors to be sure they were 
locked, Katie drew the kitchen curtains tight.  
Pulling the old zinc tub out of the pantry, she
filled it with hot water.  

From the cabinet, Katie withdrew the dish that 
held a bar of rose-scented soap, a sea sponge 
and a towel.  Steam rose from the tub as Katie 
slipped out of her clothes, folding them on a
chair.

As she sank down into the hot water, Katie found
her thoughts turned to Mathew.  She'd spent the
whole day waiting for his visit and hoping Mr.
Skinner was not speaking truthfully.  Now, she
wasn't sure what to think.  As Skinner had said,
Mathew never arrived.

Katie sponged fragrant soap bubbles over her
skin, watching them slide down into the warm
water.  She wondered what Mathew would say if
he was there with her.  Would he tell her where
he'd been all day?  Would he take the sponge from
her hand and squeeze the soapy water over her
skin?  Katie blushed, thinking about Mathew 
lifting her from the hot, scented water, carrying
her upstairs.  

"Enough of this foolishness," she muttered to
herself.  Mooning over a man was something Katie
vowed never to do.  It was unseemly, unproductive
and useless.  Katie was not some dreamy-eyed
teenager, after all.  She was a woman who made her
own decisions and her own way in this world.

Katie carefully sluiced a pitcher of clean water
over her body, rinsing off the soap suds.  She
dried her skin and emptied the bathtub by pitcher-
fuls and washed it out.  It was only when the tub
had been replaced and there was no chance of getting
wet, that Katie put on her muslin nightgown.  As 
much as she enjoyed a hot bath, Katie thought, 
the amount of work involved made a lick and promise
wash-up at the sink an attractive proposition.

Katie climbed the stairs to her room.  She turned
up the lamp and smiled at the solitude she had
achieved.  For so many years, she's had to share a
room, first with Missy, then with other girls in
various dormitories during training and her hospital
postings and then with her mother back at the 
boarding house after she left the hospital and 
Missy had gotten married.  

Then the trustees of the settlement house made 
rooms available for staff, and Katie eagerly took
advantage of the opportunity.  Maggie Scully hadn't
been pleased.  She'd insisted that no decent young 
woman would live on her own when she had family to 
live with.  Bill had been livid.  When their father 
died, Bill had assumed the role of head of the 
household and general tyrant.  Katie had told him
to go soak his head when he blustered at her that
she would get a reputation as a loose woman.

The room was comfortable.  The brass and porcelain
bedstand in the room had been tarnished and dirty
when she arrived.  Katie had carefully polished it
until it was beautiful again:  the brass shining
warmly, the porcelain trim creamy white.  Scraping 
a few dollars together, she'd bought a lovely rug 
second hand.  Katie had stitched up curtains and 
covered the bed with a lace coverlet.   She'd even 
managed to cajole Maggie out of a rocking chair and 
small table that weren't being used.

Katie was tired, but not really sleepy.  Removing
the pins from her hair, she shook it down and reached
for her silver-backed brush.  Drawing her waist-
length hair forward, she brushed it until it shined
in the lamplight.

Katie glanced over at the stack of old medical 
journals Vincent Vitigliano had given her.  She loved 
to read the articles and discuss some of the more
interesting points with the doctor.  

Most of the doctors Katie had contact with in her 
nursing career had been dismissive, treating the 
nurses as little more than scullery maids.  Vincent
Vitigliano was different.  He respected both the
nursing profession and Katie Scully as an individual,
and Katie was proud to consider him her friend.

But she wasn't in the mood to pore over case studies
and medical details.  From its place on her nightstand, 
Katie reached for her favorite book.  She oughtn't love 
it so, she thought.  "Pride and Prejudice" was too 
old-fashioned, too romantic for a modern woman.  But 
no matter, she loved Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy 
with a fondness usually reserved for family members.

She'd read half a dozen chapters when she heard the
first *ping* against her window.  A second rap sounded
followed by a third before Katie reached the window.

"Katie," Mathew called softly from the street below.
"Katie!  Are you there?"

"Mathew, what are you doing?" she asked, opening the
window and leaning out.  

"I knocked, but you didn't hear me," he answered.  "I
know it's late, but please, Katie, let me in."

"Where have you been all day?" Katie asked.  "It's 
almost ten o'clock."

"Please, Katie.  I have to see you."

She ought to leave him standing there, she thought,
but the need to see him was too strong.  

"All right," she answered.  "Come around to the 
back door."

Katie pulled a shawl around her shoulders and flew
down the stairs.  She hurried through the kitchen and
unlocked the back door.

"Katie," Mathew said, his face wreathed in a smile.  
"I'm so glad to see you--I missed you terribly."  
 
"I missed you too," she replied.  He came into the
kitchen, moving slowly.  Katie frowned as she noticed
the way his arms were wrapped around his middle as if
to protect himself.  "Where were you all day?"

"I was tied up and couldn't get away."

"Tied up?  On a Sunday?"  Sunday had been a special
day for them since they'd started "keeping company."
Mathew had shown up at the settlement house on the
occasional weekday or Saturday afternoon, but Sunday
had been a day Katie had been able to depend on
seeing him.  To have him absent the very day after 
they'd shared such closeness at Coney Island had
upset her more than she'd been willing to admit.

"I had some...er...family obligations."

"I see," she said, wrapping her shawl more tightly
around herself.  "Family obligations."

"Katie?  Is something wrong?"

"I don't know, Mathew.  Is something wrong?  You've
never mentioned your family and now you have 
obligations.  I don't know what you do for a living,
where you live--"

"Katie, what happened?  You've never questioned me 
like this before."

"Well, maybe I should have.  A man came to see me
today.  Do you know Mr. Walter Skinner? He certainly
seemed to know you."

Mathew nodded weakly.  "I know him.  What...what did
he say to you?"

"He said you wouldn't come here today."

"Well then, it wasn't true, was it?  I'm here."

"Yes. yes, you are, though it's practically tomorrow
already.  But why would he say that?  What
did he know."
 
"He doesn't know anything," Mathew said.  His hand 
crept over to hold onto the kitchen table for support.
"He only thinks he knows.  He sees what he wants to 
see, because...Katie, he thinks he's in love with 
you."

"Mathew!" she said.  "He barely knows me.  How could
he think that?"

Even as she denied it, she knew it was true.  Katie
had sensed the man had deep feelings.  

"He does."  Mathew winced as he leaned on the table.

"What's wrong, Mathew?" Katie asked.  "You're moving
as if something hurts."

"I'm fine," he assured her.   "I thought about you all
day and wished I was with you.  Tell me everything you
did today." 

"Nothing very important," she replied.   "I'm 
glad you're here."

Slipping her arms around him, Katie hugged Mathew 
tightly.  He yelped in pain, almost going limp in her 
arms.

"I knew it!" she asserted.  "You're in a lot of pain.
Don't deny it."

She began to unbutton his shirt, but he grabbed her
hands.

"Stop that, Mathew," she ordered him, and his arms
dropped.  She opened his shirt and pulled up his
undershirt to reveal his midsection.
 
"Oh my God, Mathew.  What in heaven happened to you?"

"Heaven had nothing to do with it," he muttered.  "I 
fell down."

His belly was a mass of bruises, the skin stained purple,
almost black.  The bruising extended up as far
as his chest but seemed concentrated on the abdomen, 
ending before it reached the area below his belt.   
Mathew attempted to move away from her probing fingers 
as she examined him.  His ribs didn't seem to be broken,
but he hissed and then coughed when she pressed 
lightly above his navel.

"You fell down?" she asked, incredulously.  "You need a
better story, Mathew.  This isn't the result of a fall.
I've patched up Bill and his cronies enough times to 
tell the difference between a fall and a beating.  
Someone did this to you."

"Katie, drop it.  Please," he said, desperately.  

Realization dawned on her as she remembered Skinner's
swollen nose.  They had been in a fight.  And since
they worked for the same man, that put Mathew in a 
terrible fix.

"It was that awful Mr. Skinner," she said.  "Is he
your boss?"

Mathew gave a little laugh.

"He tries to be."

"Did he...Mathew, did he have anything to do with
Samantha disappearing?" she asked, softly.

"No," he replied, shaking his head.  "No.  I'm sure 
of that at least."

She slipped her arms around him, gently this time.  
She pressed her nose into the light crop of hair in 
the middle of Mathew's chest, breathing in the scent 
of him.

"Some day soon you'll sell so many pictures you can
say goodbye to your job and that awful Mr. Skinner." 

"Katie," Mathew said, releasing a long shuddering
breath.  He held her closely, his hands stroking her 
hair, tangling in the length of it.  "I've never seen 
you with your hair down.  It's incredible."

Her shawl fell away and Katie was suddenly very
aware that she was standing in the kitchen in her 
nightclothes, embracing a half-naked man.  

This is dangerous, she thought.  Very, very dangerous.
But Mathew was here, smelling of starch and sweat,
his arms as strong as she remembered from Coney Island.

The thoughts that had been simmering below the surface
all day began to bubble up into Katie's consciousness.
It might be dangerous, even fool-hardy, but Katie knew
what she wanted, and it was to kiss Mathew again.

She reached up to bracket his beautiful face with her
hands.  He looked at her with tenderness that gradually
changed to worry as she pulled him down for a kiss.

"Katie, this isn't a good idea," he mumbled against
her mouth.  "You don't know about me."

"I know what I need to know," she whispered between kisses.
Poor Mathew, she thought, always getting bested in fistfights.  
He wasn't a fighter, and he wasn't a tower of strength, but 
he was good and kind and so very beautiful.  She wanted him 
more than she'd ever wanted anything in her life.

He didn't try to pull away as she tasted his
mouth.  He moaned as she traced his lower lip with
the tip of her tongue.  There seemed to be a struggle
going on inside of Mathew, and she felt him tremble.  
Finally, he found the strength to grasp her shoulders 
and separate from her enough to look at her.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said, his eyes burning
into hers, his breath ragged.   

"You would never hurt me, Mathew.  I know you better
than that."

Katie cupped Mathew's cheek as she gazed deep into his
eyes.  Her thumb brushed over his lips in a soft 
caress.   His grip on her shoulders softened to a caress.
Finally, his hands slid down her arms to grasp her hands 
between his.

"I want to marry you, Katie."  His voice shook with deep
emotion.  "I want to be at your side and the whole world 
to know.  But I can't do that yet."

Katie pushed Mathew's hands away and pressed herself 
to him, her arms entwining around his neck. 

"So many words, Mathew.  What you want, what you don't
want.  Do you know what I want?"

***********************************

"So many words, Mathew.  What you want, what you 
don't want.  Do you know what I want?"

"What do you want, Katie?" Mathew asked, his voice
thick with emotion.  He stroked a finger along her
cheek.

"I want you to kiss me again."

Bending his head, Mathew did his best to oblige, 
pressing his soft, pliant lips to hers at first gently, 
then with passion.  Katie parted her lips and Mathew 
did not hesitate to explore her mouth.  

This beautiful man had just told her that he loved her 
and wanted to marry her, and now her heart felt like 
it was ready to burst in her chest.  

"I love you," he whispered after each kiss.  "I love 
you.  I love you."

Katie's hands skimmed over the smooth skin of Mathew's 
shoulders and back.  With only slippers on her feet he 
towered above her, his arms around her waist.  Katie 
was grateful for those arms; they were the only thing 
keeping her from melting into a puddle on the kitchen 
floor.

Mathew's hands skimmed along her sides, molding the
nightgown to her, mapping out her body under
the voluminous fabric.  She gasped when his hands 
came around to cup her bottom, pressing her against
him.  The length of his manhood was hot and hard
against her belly.

"If we don't stop now, Katie," Fox moaned against her
mouth, "I don't know where this will end."

"I don't want it to end," she replied.  "I love you,
Mathew, and I want to be with you."

Whenever Katie had imagined her first time, it had
never been in a kitchen.  She wanted her first
experience to be beautiful and she wanted it to be
in her soft bed.

"Come on," she said, softly.  Katie took Mathew's hand
and led him through the darkened rooms.  A shaft of
moonlight from the hall window illuminated his face
as they climbed the stairs to her room.  Mathew looked
dazed and dreamy-eyed.

Her room was dark, the moon casting lacey shadows on 
the walls as it shined through the curtains.  How 
appropriate that the room looked like a fairyland on 
this magical night.  Katie turned up the lamp by the
bed until soft light gilded the room.

Mathew hand sifted through her hair, lifting the weight
of it away from her neck and letting if fall around her.  
She unfastened the first button of her muslin gown and 
then another and another until Mathew was able to slide 
it off her shoulders to pool at her feet.

Katie restrained herself from trying to cover her 
nakedness.  She didn't need to hide from Mathew.

"You're beautiful," he said, gazing at her with naked
joy.  "The most beautiful sight I've ever seen."

Gently, his fingers traced along the rise of her
breast and she shivered.  Her courage abandoned her
as the room's cool air hardened her nipples and
she realized that for the first time in her life, she
was fully naked in the presence of a man.

Somehow, Mathew sensed her discomfort and shrugged out
of his shirt and undershirt.  He embraced her and 
she nearly swooned at the feeling of his bare chest
against her own naked skin. 

"I'll be gentle," he whispered in her ear.

"I know."

Mathew scooped her up in his arms, grunting in pain
as his bruises reasserted themselves through the haze
of desire.  

"Oh dear," Katie said.  "You're in too much pain."

"I'm fine," Mathew gasped, as he carried her to 
the bed.   "I just have to pace myself." 

He flipped the coverlet back and laid her on the cool 
sheets.  In the lamplight, his skin was burnished gold, 
marred only by the bruising over his midsection as 
he stood by the bed.  

Slowly, he unfastened his trousers and shucked them down 
his long legs until he was as naked as she.  Katie felt
her eyes grow very round at the sight of Mathew's erect
member.  In her nursing training, she'd seen naked men,
but never erect.  To her unpracticed eye, Mathew looked
incredibly large.

"Don't be frightened," he said, gently, as he climbed 
up on the bed next to her. 

"I'm not," she asserted, though she'd have been more
persuasive if her voice hadn't quavered.  

Mathew kissed her and suddenly, her fears drifted away.
His hands stroked her skin, her breasts, her hips, her
belly.  Everywhere he touched, her skin burned as if 
kissed by fire.  He cupped her breast, his thumb grazing
over her nipple. 

"So beautiful," he murmured before taking the rosy tip
into his mouth.  Katie moaned at the sensation of wet
warmth on her skin.   It was unlike anything she'd ever
experienced in her life.   

Mathew's hands slowly drifted along her side, and over
her belly.  Gently, he parted her thighs and found the 
tiny nub nestled in the curls between her legs.  Katie
stiffened, her hands twisting in the sheets.  None of the
books she'd read and none of the whispered confidences of
her fellow nurses had prepared her for the way this felt. 

She whimpered as he brushed his thumb over her, each
touch like an electrical shock.  Her back arched and
her head tossed from side to side.  A gasp escaped her
lips as he pushed a finger inside her and her back arched
in surprise.  

"Relax," Mathew murmured.  "It's better if you relax."  
His mouth covered hers, kissing her deeply.  

She was floating, anchored only by his touch, by the
feeling of his lips on hers and his hand moving on
her, in her.  She was unable to control the movement of 
her hips as she bucked against his hand. 

"Please, Mathew," she said.  "Please...I...I want..."

"Are you all right?"  His voice was raspy, his breath hot 
on her face.  "Do you want me to stop?"

"Please," she moaned.  "Please...don't stop."

Mathew positioned himself above her, supported by his
arms, his hips nestled between her parted thighs.  
Slowly, so very slowly, he entered her.  Her 
eyes were squeezed closed and she grasped his shoulders,
her nails digging into his firm flesh.

Finally, he was fully inside her, remaining still as he 
allowed her body to adjust to him.  

"Does this hurt?" he asked.

She shook her head, but he remained still until she 
began to move her lower body in an effort to recreate 
that amazing sensation of friction between her legs.  

Taking her cue, Mathew's moved within her, slowly at 
first, then faster as Katie locked her ankles over his 
back.  His hips began to pump then, his breath ragged 
in her ear with the exertion of each thrust.

The warmth that had begun with his first touch was
kindled into a steady flame as Katie's hips bucked
under Mathew.  It spread through her, tendrils of
heat entwining through her until the night exploded
into a blinding flash of light behind her closed 
eyes.  She cried out, burying her face in the crook
of Mathew's neck.  

Mathew's hips jerked once and then twice more before
he groaned out her name and emptied his seed into
her.

He collapsed onto her, covering her like a warm,
sweaty blanket.  She stroked the smooth skin of his
back as they both caught their breath.  Mathew
rolled off her, pulling her onto her side to face
him.

"How do you feel?" he asked, touching her face.

"Wonderful," she whispered.  "So wonderful."

Mathew stretched a long arm to turn down the lamp
by the bed and pulled the covers over them.  Brushing 
the damp hair from her face, he looked deep into her 
eyes as if he couldn't believe he was lying in her bed, 
his arm tight around her waist.

Katie was quite sure that if not for Mathew's anchoring
arm, she would surely float up toward the ceiling.
She giggled at the thought.  Mathew must think her mad,
laughing at nothing in the middle of the night.  One
glance, though, and she saw she had nothing to worry
about.  Mathew was sound asleep.

She watched his face in the shifting moonlight until
sleep overtook her.  

Katie woke while it was still dark.  Her bed felt 
empty to her as she realized Mathew was no longer 
in it.  She sat up, holding the sheet to her breasts 
and watched him dress silently in the dark. 

Mathew turned to her, smiling as he buttoned his
shirt.  "Good morning," he said, softly.  "You 
looked so beautiful sleeping there.  I could barely
take my eyes off you."

"What time is it?" she asked, swinging her legs over
the side of the bed and yawning.

"Just past five," he replied, tucking in his shirt.  He
sat on the end of the bed.  "I have to change clothes 
and go to work.  I'm sorry I woke you."

"It's all right," she said, reaching for her nightgown.
"I'd have to get up soon anyway.  I'll make us some 
coffee."

Pulling her shawl around her, Katie descended the stairs
with Mathew following her.  His shoes were loud against 
the steps.  She led him into the kitchen where she turned 
up the light.  

Katie chanced little glances at Mathew as she set about 
measuring out the coffee and filling the pot with water.  
He seemed pensive and that raised little prickles of worry 
along her spine.  He was obviously an experienced man.   
Katie didn't think she could stand it if he was disappointed 
with her. 

"You seem to be moving better today," she said as she cut 
two large slices of bread and set them on the table with 
jam.  She took milk and from the ice box.

"I'm fine," he replied.

"You didn't strain yourself?  Last night, I mean."

"No," he said, smiling and shaking his head.  "No strain.
How about you?  Are you all right?"

"Sure," she answered and it was true.  She was a little 
sore, but she felt alive, energized.  She worried that,
perhaps, Mathew didn't feel the same way.  That fear 
compelled her to push further.

"Is...is something wrong?" she asked, as she concentrated 
on breathing.  "Are you sorry we...."

"Oh, no," he said, crossing to take her hands.  "It was
the most wonderful...most incredible...I could never
regret that.  But--"

"But what?"  

"I should have pulled out, Katie, but I was too far gone
and couldn't stop.  I've never been so completely 
overwhelmed by the experience before.  But what if
something happened?"

Shame rose within Katie as she realized that she'd been 
so careless.  As a nurse, Katie was supremely aware of 
the impact an unplanned pregnancy had on a young woman's 
life.  She'd been so focused on a perfect first time that 
she'd blocked that from her mind and taken a terrible 
chance.  

"I think it was safe," she said.  She'd just finished
her monthly and seemed to remember that was the safest
time.  "Still, we have to be careful from now on."

"Yes," he said, brightening.  "From now on."   

The coffee bubbled over, interrupted them as the liquid
hissed in the flame.  Katie ran to the stove to take 
the pot off the heat and poured them each a cup.

They sat at the scarred oak table sharing their first 
breakfast.  There was something so intimate about the 
act of their hands meeting at the jam jar.  So 
incredibly domestic.

"Someday, when we have our own kitchen, you can cook
me a fine dinner every day," he said, with a sly grin.

"What makes you think I can cook, Mr. Fox?" she asked,
laughing.  

"I bet there isn't anything you can't do," he said,
taking her hands in his.  "Katie..."

"What, Mathew?" 

"You know how I feel about you, don't you?  That I'm 
completely crazy in love with you?"

"Well, I know you're crazy," she said, chuckling.

"Katie, I want to be with you, every day, always, but
I have some...loose ends I have to tie up before we 
can be together."

"What do you mean--loose ends?" she asked.  She didn't 
want to think about Walter Skinner's warning, but she 
heard his voice in her ear--'what do you really know
of him?'

"It's something I have to do for work.  By putting in
the hours now I can get myself free of an obligation. 
I'll be able to tell you more when it's over."

"I saw what Mr. Skinner did to you.  I'm afraid, Mathew."  

"I'll be safe, but I won't be able to see you as often
as I'd like.  We'll be together soon, I promise.   Will
you trust me?" 

The truth was, she did.  There was a whole world of Mathew 
Fox that she didn't understand, but she sensed only love 
and deep commitment from the man before her.  She nodded,
solemnly.   

"I do trust you, Mathew." 

"I promise, it will all work out in the end."  He downed 
his coffee, grabbing his bread and jam.  "I better go
now, if I want to make it to work on time."

Katie followed Mathew to the kitchen door.  He kissed
her deeply before slipping out.  She watched him make
his way through the back yard and out the backyard
with a wave of his hand.  

A twitch of the curtains over at the Berkowitz' window
caught her attention as she closed the kitchen door.

"Oy vey," Katie muttered.   Shayna would have
questions.  Shayna would want answers.

Katie sat down to finish her coffee, and to think, not
about Shayna, but about Mathew.

Her Mathew.  She loved him and everything about him. 
His beautiful voice, so serious, even when she knew he
was teasing.  His intelligence.  The way he listened
to her when she spoke.  His quiet confidence.  The ways 
he kissed her.  Sometimes impulsive and bold, sometimes 
awestruck and careful.

She loved his body.  His long, muscled legs.  His
strong arms and his strong, soft hands.  His chest...
oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, his poor, battered chest
and stomach.  

If she hadn't seen it before, she wouldn't believe
that bare fists could cause such bruising.  And yet
Mathew wasn't afraid of Mr. Skinner.  You would think
he'd be in a twist knowing he had to go back to work 
and that Mr. Skinner would be there.  

Katie should have asked him more about the obligation
at work, which would take up so much time until he
could be rid of it.  How did Mr. Skinner fit in with
that obligation?  Mathew didn't want to talk about it.
He said he would explain when it was over.

Her mysterious Mathew.  Mathew's secrets hung over
them both like gathering clouds, but the mystery drew
her in even as it frightened her.  

"Give me ten minutes alone with him, I'll find his
secrets," Shayna had offered.

Shayna was shrewd and shameless.  She liked Mathew but
she said Katie had to be practical.  

Most of the time, Katie was practical.  She managed
the operations of the settlement house with a keen eye
to wringing the maximum benefit from her limited
funds.  She organized her days so that every task
could be completed. 

What she felt for Mathew wasn't practical.  Shayna
questioned if he could support a family, what his
mother was like, did he snore, what kind of work did
he do with those soft, uncallused hands...

Katie smiled.  Maybe one day she'd tell Shayna what
Mathew could do with his soft hands and soft lips and
hard...

Stop, enough!  Or *ganuk,* as Shayna would say. 

Time for work.  It was still early, but not too early
to call on the Lurias and their baby.

She tidied the kitchen, leaving the coffee pot on the
stove to rewarm later.  She dressed and set out on her
visit.

She found the baby much improved, to the parents'
relief and her own.  The Lurias were effusive in their
thanks.  If they noticed that Katie was in a fog, they
were too polite and grateful to mention it.  She was
back at the settlement house in time to set up for the
open clinic that Vincent Vitigliano conducted there
weekly.

Vincent arrived, and she must have brought him the
records he needed, and filled him in on the patients
he had seen the week before.  She probably told him
about the Luria baby too.

Katie said a silent prayer that everyone would stay
safe and healthy until she could concentrate.  She
knew from experience that she would snap to attention
in the event of a crisis, but she didn't like to take
that for granted.

Vincent was chatting with a grubby little boy,
imploring him to brush his teeth and overcome his
licorice habit.  Katie listened with only half an ear.

"Good heavens, Stevie, you've grown two feet since
your last visit," she heard the doctor say.

"Gettouttaheah, doc.  I always had two feet, see?"

"It says so right here.  Your height is six feet,
eight inches."

Dr. Vitigliano was popular with the patients, and not
just because he was the only doctor they could afford.
With his dark hair and piercing blue eyes, he was 
especially well liked by the neighborhood females.  
Usually Katie enjoyed the clinic, but today her
thoughts were in a whirl, and in the middle of the
whirl was Mathew.

"Nurse Scully, can it really be true that this young
man is over six feet tall?" Vincent asked.

"I must be the tallest boy in the world!" Stevie
chortled.

"Katie?"

This time Vincent's voice cut through the fog.  He
didn't normally use her first name when patients 
were present.

"Yes, doctor?" she responded.

"Would you mind checking Stevie Kane's height once 
more?"

Katie blushed.  She hated making mistakes, even when
they caused no harm.

Unfortunately the morning was full of silly blunders. 
She found herself writing "left" when she meant
"right," or repeating her questions because she'd
neglected to record the answer.  A few of the patients
became annoyed, but  Vincent responded with his usual
good humor.

She tried to apologize at the end of the day as he was
packing up.

"My mother has a saying: Only those who do nothing
make no mistakes," he assured her.  

"I'll inspect these records again, before I file them
away," she said, stacking the papers in a neat pile.  

Vincent shrugged, seemingly unconcerned by her sloppy
performance.

"I'll see you Wednesday," he said.  "It should be
interesting."

Katie had to think for a moment until she remembered.

"Oh, yes.  Dr. Oppenheim's lecture on the 
electrocardiograph.  Thank you so much for inviting 
me," she said.  

After he left, she made good on her promise to go over
the patients' records one more time.  Mercifully there
were no more mistakes to taunt her.

Last night had not been a mistake.  The morning had
found Mathew fearful about what they'd done, but Katie
had only gladness. 

For as long as she'd understood the concept, virginity
had stood before her like the great divide.  The
virgins on  one side, and everyone else on the other. 
The wives and the widows, who had nothing to explain. 
The loose and fallen women, with their tales of woe. 
And the modern girls like herself, who made their
choice with open minds and open hearts.

Virginity, taller than the Rocky Mountains, because
once you crossed you could never go back.

It was all nonsense.  She was no different than the
day before.  Her body burned for Mathew, counting the
time until they could be together, but that was not
new.  There were sparks from the first time she saw
him, and the smoldering had begun the day that Tom
Colton pulled him off the stoop.

Later that day, Katie was still mulling over her
conversation with Mathew that morning as she swept 
off that very stoop.  The settlement house was 
quiet in the late afternoon as people returned 
home to cook and eat their suppers.  Katie enjoyed
these quiescent periods where she could catch
her breath and her composure.

"Hey, minnow!" a voice called from the front walk.
"You missed a spot over there."

Bill Scully, Jr. stood at the base of the steps,
pointing to a leaf that had escaped her broom.

Katie bit back a retort and kept her expression mild.  
Letting Bill know he had gotten under her skin would
only serve to ensure further teasing.  Ever since 
she was a tiny girl, Bill had called her "minnow,"
saying she was too little for the fishermen's nets.

Seeing Katie's red-faced anger, Missy had tried to
point out how pretty the minnows were, their little
bodies shining in the sunlight as they darted back 
and forth in the shallows.  Katie refused to be 
cosseted--the movement of the fish struck her as 
a pointless waste of energy.

"Hello Bill," she said, dryly.  "A pity you don't 
have anything better to do than point that out." 

"Now, there ain't no call for back talk, minnow, 
'specially when I come by to bring ya somethin'."

Bill climbed the steps, holding out a crockery jar 
wrapped in a dish towel.  "Ma made stew.  Thought 
you might like some."

"Thanks," she said.  She took the jar carefully 
as heat radiated through the dish towel.  In the 
hierarchy of the Scully family, Bill was the favored
elder son, the head of the household.  He was an
unlikely errand boy.  Katie pondered whose idea this 
was--Bill or her mother.

"Let me put this in the kitchen," she said.  Bill 
didn't seem ready to take his leave yet.  "Well, you
might as well come in."

She led him into the front hall and through to the
kitchen at the back of the house.  Her brother glanced
around the room.

"You could fit five of Ma's kitchen in here."

"I guess you could," she agreed, placing the hot jar
on the table.  

"Charlie says you got a fella," Bill said.  "Is it 
that Eye-talian doctor?"

Ah, she thought, we've finally hit on the real reason
for Bill's visit.  He loomed over her, hands on hips.  
Her brother was a strapping man--his muscles had muscles 
from lifting heavy boxes on the docks.  But Katie was 
not easily intimidated.

"And how is this your business?" she asked.

"It's my business 'cause yer my little sister, that's
how.  So is it him?"

"If you must know," Katie began, "Vincent and I are 
friends.  And even if he were, it would still be up
to me to decide."

"Jeez, Katie, nobody said it wasn't up to you.  I just 
can't figure why you don't wanna go out with Tom.  
He's a hard workin' guy--makes a good pay and he don't 
drink much, not like that bum of Missy's.  Tom likes 
you--he don't care that you went off to be a nurse."

"Well, I'm sure that's big of Tom," she said. 

"A lot of fellas don't want a girl that speaks her
mind alla time and lives on her own like you.  Well,
not to marry, anyway.  You shouldn't turn yer nose
up at Tom--you could do worse."

"Well, maybe I'm looking for something more than 
'you could do worse'."  

"Look, Katie--you can't change who you are and where you 
come from.   People should stay with their own kind.  
It's the way things are--not just 'cause I said so.  A 
mick should marry a mick.  That way we all understand
each other."

"Why, Bill?  What's so damned great about the Irish
that I have to limit myself to the men from the
neighborhood?"

"Katie, we're Irish and nothing will ever change that.  
It ain't that many years since they had signs saying 
'no Irish need apply.'  But look--we didn't let that 
keep us down.  Da came over with nothing.  Had to 
settle for half wages, but still, he managed to send
home some money.  Now Ma's got the boarding house and
don't hafta worry where her next meal is coming from.
Nobody is ever gonna understand the fight we got in
us.  You'd just be setting yourself up to be unhappy."

In his own bigoted, small-minded way, Bill had uncovered
a truth that had been nagging at Katie since she met
Mathew.  Were they too different?  Katie knew very
little about Mathew, but she sensed he came from
advantaged circumstances.  

At first, she'd assumed Mathew had sacrificed that 
comfort in the pursuit of his sister and his beloved 
photography.  She'd thought that amazingly brave
and selfless.  Now she wasn't sure what to think.
It seemed Mathew had obligations to a job and maybe 
to a life beyond her grasp.  

But he'd asked her to be patient and she would honor
that request.  He was a good man who made her head 
swim and her pulse race.  She trusted Mathew with her 
heart and that was all there was to that.

"I know you're just trying to look out for me, Bill.
I really do.  But I have to find my own way."

"You're a fool, Katie Scully," Bill said, softly.  
"Ma said mind you don't crack the jar on the stove." 

As he left, Bill slammed the back door a little harder 
than necessary.  

Putting a small amount of the stew in a bowl, Katie
stood by the window and ate.  Even with her mind in
turmoil, her mother's cooking was comforting.  She
spooned a little more into her bowl and put the rest
in the ice box.

The settlement house would spring back to life soon.  
Katie washed up her dishes and went upstairs to the 
largest room in the house.  Now used for meetings and 
larger gatherings, the room had once been a ballroom.  
On Monday nights, it returned to that function as the
folk dancing club met there and learned new dances.

Katie cleared the center of the room, moving the chairs
against the walls.  By the time she had dusted the
piano and set out the music for Mrs. Tibby, who 
accompanied the group.

Members of the group were already entering by the time 
she finished her chores.  It amazed Katie that people 
who had stood on their feet for ten hours in factories
or shops still had the energy to dance.  The group of
young women she met on the stairs greeted her in high 
spirits, though.

Shayna Berkowitz gave her a long, solemn look as 
she passed Katie on the stairs.  Katie fought the
urge to lower her eyes, meeting Shayna with steadiness
that she didn't feel.  "Be careful," Shayna said,
quietly before disappearing up the steps.

When she wasn't actually running a class or program, 
Katie usually worked in the kitchen in case she was 
needed.  Tonight, she'd collected the settlement house's
ledger books from the office and spread them out over
the kitchen table.  Unfortunately, her mind refused to
stay on the numbers and returned over and over to Mathew.

The certainty and peace she'd felt in his arms was going 
to be hard to maintain while they were parted.  How had
her mother managed the long weeks when Da traveled up and 
down the coast, fishing.  If only she could talk to her 
mother about her feelings, but she was sure Ma would 
just echo Bill's sentiments.

Her musings continued until she was roused by a
commotion in the front room.  She heard the heavy
front door swing open, and then a clamor of voices.

Discussing politics was one of the foremost pastimes
here on the east side, and this sounded like a typical
debate.  Katie went to investigate.  By the volume of
voices she expected to find a dozen people in the
front hall but she found only three.

"Mr. Frohike," she greeted the one man she recognized.
"You're making more noise than the folk dancers."

"Sorry, Miss Scully.  I forgot my lecture notes here
last week," the little man explained.  "These
boneheads are John Byers and Ringo Langly."

The other two stopped their bickering long enough to
shake her hand.

"Ringo the Monk?" she inquired with a bemused smile. 
Knocko the Monk was a popular comic strip, about
monkeys with names like Braggo and Rhymo.

"Ringo, as in Johnny Ringo.  Fastest gun in the West,"
the bespectacled young man explained defensively.

"A common outlaw," interjected the one called Byers.

"A modern-day Robin Hood," Langly shot back.

"Against all reason, I'm allowing these gentlemen to
assist in the creation and production of my new
newspaper," Mr. Frohike told Katie.

"Another newspaper?  There are so many," Katie said.

"Assist?" Langly asked with disbelief.

"If by 'assist' you mean write, edit, print and
distribute, I believe the term is accurate," said
Byers.

"Another newspaper because none of the rags we have
now is willing to print the truth," Frohike said.

"Because they're owned by millionaires," Langly said.

"Millionaires like Hearst and Pulitzer control the
newspapers, just as men like Rockefeller and Carnegie
control industry," Byers said.

"And the government, which was formed to serve the
needs of the people, is the puppet of the moneyed
class," Frohike added.

"As if that wasn't enough, you have guys like Big Tim
Sullivan and The MacManus, serving out the public
money like it was their own.  Controling the voters by
giving them back from the money they stole," Langly
concluded.

"And half the people aren't even allowed the vote,"
Katie reminded them.  The three men looked puzzled for
a moment.

"Oh, the women.  Yes, women's suffrage is another
important issue," Byers said.

"Yeah, sure.  But let's not get sidetracked," said
Langly.

Katie shook her head reproachfully but the three men
were back on their tirade.

"You've got the city bosses and the big
industrialists, but on top of them you've got the
bankers. Rothschild, Mulder, Morgan. . . And those
aren't *men,* those are dynasties," Frohike said.

"The younger Mulder seems a good sort," Byers said
quietly.

"We know the son," Langly said, with some pride.  
"He comes to our shop."

Frohike looked interested.

"The one I'd really like to meet is the daughter.  
Did you hear about her?"

"I seem to remember something," Byers said.

"Old man Mulder wanted to marry her into the Von
Strughold family.  Then she'd be a baroness, and he'd
have connections across Europe and into Africa and
South America.  But the girl wouldn't do it.  She
turned her back on a life of wealth and privilege, 
and she flew the coop," Frohike related.  

Katie thought about her own overbearing family, 
and about Mathew's missing sister. 

"Men.  They never learn," she said.  

Katie felt the weight of someone's gaze and looked up
to see Ringo Langly studying her face.   She gave him
a questioning look.

"Sorry to stare," he said.  "It's just that you look
so familiar--I'm sure I've seen you before."

Katie regarded him carefully, taking in the blond hair
in need of a trimming, the spectacles, the thin face.  

"I don't believe we've ever met," she replied.  "Perhaps
I remind you of someone you know."

"Maybe.  It's such a strong feeling, though, that I've
seen your face before.  I'm sure it will come to me
eventually."

*****************************
 
"We should go to Italy for a honeymoon," Mathew said as 
he trailed a finger along her ribcage to circle her 
nipple.  "We could ride in a gondola in Venice and 
I'd cover you with kisses."

"Mathew, we can hardly afford a day at Coney Island, 
let alone a honeymoon in Italy," she said, laughing 
as his finger tickled her skin.  She took his hand 
and brought it to her mouth to press a kiss to the 
palm.

"We can dream, can't we?" he asked.  Catlike, Mathew 
stretched his long body beside her, arching his back
and expanding his chest.  He was as naked as the day 
he was born and more beautiful than anything she'd 
ever seen in her life.  

"I suppose," she conceded.  "But Italy?  It would 
cost a fortune."

He rolled onto his side, drawing one long, bare leg
up to bridge her thighs.  "Maybe it wouldn't be just
a dream.  I may just come into a bonus soon." 

"From work?" she asked, stroking her hand along his
flank.  He nodded, almost purring at her touch.

Good lord, she felt quite debauched, lounging naked 
in her bed with Mathew, both of them sated from 
lovemaking.  

This was her only time with him, these days.  Mathew
had warned her three weeks ago after they'd made love
for the first time, that he had to concentrate on work 
for a while so he could be free to marry her.  The 
days were long and lonely without him.  

The time he was able to spend with her was precious 
beyond gold.   Mathew always came by late at night.  
Just like that first night, he announced his arrival 
with pebbles tossed against her bedroom window.  

Being with Mathew felt like a dream.  He took her in 
his arms and kissed her, and the world fell away.  He 
made love to her, and it was as if they were the only 
two people on earth.   

Katie was shocked by how much she enjoyed physical
relations with Mathew.  As a girl, she'd had little 
exposure to the sexual act.  Her mother never spoke 
about it beyond admonishments not to let a boy "take 
advantage of her."  Katie supposed her mother had been 
waiting for a wedding before telling her anything 
about the act.

The comments she's heard from the more forward of
the nursing students were that it hurt and once a man
got what he wanted, he often moved on to another girl.
No one had ever told Katie how wonderful it could be,
how amazing it could feel.  She'd read a clinical
description of the sex act in a physiology textbook.  
But Katie was completely unprepared for the 
heart-stopping power of her response to Mathew.

He said she was "a natural."  She wasn't sure what
that meant, but Katie felt vague worry that she was
on her way to becoming a wanton woman.

She loved these moments after lovemaking and
before sleep.  She would tell Mathew about her day 
and all the goings-on at the settlement house.  Mathew
rarely shared anything about his daily life, saying only
that his work was hectic and miserable.  

"You deserve a bonus after all your hard work," Katie
said.  "But do you really want to spend it all on a 
trip?"

"You're the real bonus," he said.  "You're my prize 
at the end of the day.  I think you're right about 
Italy.  Maybe we could put the money toward a little 
house off Washington Square Park."

"A house?" she asked, delight creeping into her voice.

"A sweet little house," he replied.  "Big enough for
a baby or two.  With a cozy bedroom for us to make love
in and sunny kitchen where you could fix breakfast every 
morning."

"Glad to see you have your priorities in order, Mr. Fox."

"I most certainly do.  Sex, then food.  And photography,
of course--I'll have a darkroom in the basement where I
can develop my pictures.  And a little office.  I plan
to make my living from those pictures, some day."

Some day.  She lived for some day.  

Mathew nattered on a while longer about the house they'd 
buy and the backyard it would have where he'd hang a
swing from the largest tree and she'd plant climbing
roses.  Katie fell asleep to the warm drone of his voice.

The next morning found them following their usual routine--
an early breakfast of jam and bread and coffee and a kiss
at the back door.  Katie sighed as she watched Mathew 
slip through the gate at the far end of the backyard.

Turning away from the door, Katie set about cleaning up
the kitchen and washing the dishes.  While this was 
Katie's day off from the settlement house, it would 
hardly be a day of rest.  Maggie Scully did her washing 
on Thursday and Katie was expected to help her wash and 
hang the sheets and towels for the whole boarding house.  

Katie didn't mind hard work, but she wasn't looking 
forward to a day at the boarding house.  Late nights 
with Mathew meant Katie struggled through exhausted days 
on little sleep.  But the tension between Katie and her
mother was the real reason her feet were dragging this
morning.

The kitchen set to rights, Katie washed up and dressed
in one of her older shirtwaists and a gray skirt that
she'd patched after tearing it on a nail.  Laundry
day was hard on clothes and she didn't want to ruin
the few nice things she owned.

Amy Jacobs would be in soon to teach her first English
class of the day.  The students were mostly people 
employed on the nightshift and young mothers.  It
wasn't at all unusual for Amy to have three or four
babies attending class in their mothers' arms.

Up until a few months ago, Amy had shared the house
with Katie, sleeping in the room that Mathew had
slept in the night Tom Colton had beaten him.  After
her brief demonstration of independence, Amy had
yielded to family pressure and moved back to her
parent's home.  Katie missed her, but couldn't help
being glad at the turn of events that provided her
and Mathew with such glorious privacy.

Mr. Blevins, the chief trustee of the settlement house
committee had advertised for an additional staff member
to ease some of Katie's burden.  While Katie welcomed
the help, she fervently hoped the new employee wouldn't
be interested in living at the house. 

Pulling the door closed behind her, Katie looked up 
at the sound of wood hitting wood.  Shayna Berkowitz 
was on her back steps, beating her broom against the 
railing and sending billows of dust into the air.

"Good morning, Shayna," Katie called out.  

Shayna nodded her head, uncharacteristically quiet,
for which Katie was grateful.  Shayna's kitchen
curtains seemed to part every morning as Mathew left.
Katie was sure Shayna would have plenty to say.

Katie had almost congratulated herself on her 
escape when Shayna called out to her.  

"Katie!"

Fixing a neutral expression on her face, Katie 
turned to her neighbor.

"Katie, I know ya think this ain't none a my business, 
and maybe yer right, but I worry about ya.  Yer 
like a sister to me, and it breaks my heart to
see ya treated like this.  What kind of boy 
sneaks out of a girl's house like a thief in the
night?"

"Shayna," Katie began, touched by her friend's
concern.  "I wish you wouldn't worry.  I know 
what I'm doing."

"Sure ya do," Shayna scoffed.  "Yer so turned 
around over that boy ya can't see straight.  
But something's not right--mark my word.  
He's fine-looking, I'll give ya that, but that
boy's either got a wife or the cops are after
him."

"Shayna!  Mathew is certainly not in trouble 
with the police."

"Katie, I got a feeling deep in my bones.   He's
not the boy for you.  Now, what about that nice 
Dr. V?  He's such a nice fella and crazy about 
ya, Katie."

"Dr. Vitigliano is most definitely not 'crazy
about me', Shayna.  He's a good friend and 
acts completely professional to me."

"I wasn't born yesterday, Katie--I know when a 
man has eyes for a woman."

"Even if you were right--and I don't think you
are, but just suppose Dr. Vitigliano had feelings
for me, I don't return them, Shayna.  So it 
wouldn't matter.  I...I have to go now.  My mother
expects me this morning." 

They took their leave and Katie set off for her
mother's boarding house.  As she walked the blocks
to Clinton Street, she thought about what Shayna
had said about Vincent Vitigliano.

A few weeks ago, Vincent had suggested Katie attend
a lecture on the electrocardiograph.   Always 
fascinated by advances in medicine, Katie had found
the lecture interesting, though her mind kept
drifting to Mathew.
 
As they walked out of the lecture hall, Vincent had 
asked Katie if she wanted to get a cup of coffee.  
That hadn't been unusual--she and Vincent often shared 
a cup in the settlement house's big kitchen.
She'd given her regrets, saying she had some work to do 
back at the house, but in reality, she'd wanted to be
home in case Mathew stopped by.  Looking back, she
realized Vincent had stammered a little on his 
invitation and looked so disappointed at her refusal.

Maybe Shayna wasn't so far off the mark about Vincent,
but she was completely wrong about Mathew.  What did
Shayna know about that kind of love?  One look at her
husband was enough to answer that question.  He was
good to his family and brought home a decent salary, 
but it was impossible to imagine that Shayna had 
married him for love.

Katie frowned to herself.  Missy had married for love.
But so had Ma.

Katie arrived at the boarding house.  Charlie was
outside, bouncing a ball against the stoop, and he
burst into a smile when he saw her.

"Ahoy, minnow!" he shouted gleefully.  As always he
wore Da's old cap, and it seemed larger than ever now
that his hair was gone.  But even with his head
cropped close for the summer and an enormous cap
falling over his eyes, he was still the apple of her
eye.

"Why, Charlie, I didn't recognize you," she answered. 
"I thought for sure it was Christy Mathewson there
warming up his arm."

"Yeah, g'wan," he said.  "Ma's got the water boiling
for the washing.

"I hope you helped her fill the kettle," Katie said,
sternly. 

"Dmitri did that.  He was mopin' 'round the kitchen,
and Ma said he might just as well be useful."

"Dmitri's up early.  He didn't lose his position, I
hope."  Dmitri, one of the boarders, was a waiter at 
Delmonico's Restaurant, a plum of a job for such a 
young man.  But his hours were late and it was odd 
that he'd be about in the morning.

"He's waiting for a letter from the old country.  He's
worried about his girl," Charlie said.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Katie said.  Dmitri was
devoted to the sweetheart he'd left behind.   She was
a Jewish girl, which had prompted Bill to say he was
surprised there were any Jewish girls left in Russia,
with all of them over here.  And then Ma had reminded
him that our Lord's own mother was a Jewish girl, and
a silent mouth was sweet to hear.  

She found Dmitri and her mother both in the kitchen.

"Fill up the washtub and then you must have some
breakfast," Maggie said.  "Starving yourself won't
bring the postman any sooner."

Dmitri lifted the heavy kettle from the iron stove and
poured water into the tub, grunting at the effort.

"Thank you, Mrs. Scully, but no breakfast," he said as
he sat down.

"Good morning, Ma." 

"Where have you been?" Mrs. Scully asked.  "Half the
morning's gone already."

"Sorry, Ma, I got held up," she said. rolling up her
sleeves.  "Good morning, Dmitri."

"Tell him, Katie.  He'll grow feeble if he doesn't
eat," Maggie said.

"Miss Scully, I cannot eat when my heart is like a
stone," Dmitri explained.

"Some tea," Maggie decided.

Katie bundled a sheet into the washtub.  The water 
was almost unbearably hot, but she knew it would 
soon cool.  

"Try some tea, Dmitri," she urged him.

"My beautiful Sophie could be dead," Dmitri told her.

"Good heavens!  I had no idea," Katie said.  She had
imagine that Dmitri was fretting about waning
affection, not life and death.

"More burnings, more pogroms.  I should not have left
her," he said.

"I'm so sorry," Katie said.

"You're looking thin, Katherine, and dark around the
eyes," Maggie said suddenly, studying her critically. 

"I'm feeling quite well," Katie said.

"The washing will wait if you haven't had your
breakfast."

"I ate, Ma."

"So you say.  We'll see at noon-time."

They worked for hours, scrubbing the sheets and
towels, rinsing and then turning them through the
wringer.  Dmitri carried the heavy washbaskets outside
and Katie hung the clean linen on the line to dry.

The mail delivery brought no word for Dmitri, and his
face was a gray mask when he left for the restaurant. 
The work grew heavier without his help, and by late
morning, Katie was exhausted.  When her mother
announced lunch, Katie was eager for the rest.  Maggie
loaded her plate and watched carefully as she ate.
 
After lunch, Ma boiled more water for her personal
laundry and Charlie's.

"Did you not bring your own laundry?" Maggie asked
when Katie returned from the clothesline.

"I have so little, it's no trouble to do it at the
house," she answered.  She didn't choose to add that
she took her shirtwaists and cotton skirts to the
Chinese laundryman.  Ma would snort at the
extravagance, or else complain that the clothes would
come back stained or with a funny smell.

When all the clothes were on the line, Maggie set to
preparing supper.  Katie took some rags for dusting,
but Maggie wouldn't have it.

"Take a rest, Kate.  Lie down and I'll call you for
supper."

"Ma, I feel fine--"

"Then suit yourself and stay awake, but I won't have
you working any more.  And you're stayin' to supper,"
she said, her tone indicating she would accept no
refusal.

Katie rolled her eyes, but she left the kitchen to sit
in the parlor.  As she settled into the big wing
chair, she realized she truly was fatigued enough to
fall asleep, but she was far to stubborn to let that
happen.  Instead she read.

First she read an article from the Catholic Weekly News, 
about Joan of Arc,  newly beatified and perhaps one day a
saint.   A good thing, Katie thought, that the Holy
Father could contemplate sainthood for a young girl
who wore armor and led soldiers to battle.  Better
would be if the Church could support the struggles of
young girls today, and not 500 years after they died.
 
Under the church newspaper was a section from The World, 
the newspaper that Charlie hawked every evening.  It was 
a week old, but worse, it was the part that gave news of
society folk.  It was hard for Katie to have any
interest in people who spent more on a bottle of wine
than Ma spent feeding the house for a week.  

Now here was a fine example.  Wagging tongues feared
that all was not well between John Jacob Astor and his
wife.  Why that would concern anyone beyond the two
themselves and their children, Katie could not imagine.

And here:  Mrs. Vanderbilt entertained a thousand of
her closest friends at her home in Newport.  

Next, a second chance at love:  Mrs. Diana Fowley,
widow of Hirum Fowley, former president of the Fowley
Steamship Company, was now engaged to Fox William 
Mulder, only son of William Mulder, well known in the 
world of finance, art and philanthropy.

This must be the young heir that Mr. Frohike and his
friends had discussed, with the rebellious sister. 
"Fox" was a word that Maggie used frequently, meaning
trick or outsmart, and at one time Katie would have
laughed at a name like Fox Mulder.   Now, with Mathew
around, she thought Fox was a very pretty name.

Of course her thoughts drifted back to Mathew, as she
dozed in the chair, waking only when the clock chimed
five o'clock.  Embarrassed to have fallen asleep in
the middle of the day, Katie was glad her mother hadn't
caught her.  Maggie didn't need further evidence of
Katie's late nights.

The laundry would surely be dry by now, she thought
as she went out to take it from the line.  As she tossed 
the pegs into their bucket, she ducked her head and smiled.  
She'd been taking in the washing when she first saw Mathew.

She remembered that day in perfect clarity--the way he'd
come out of the shadows, so bold and brash with his
camera.  His hazel eyes had sparkled with intelligence
and humor.  He'd intrigued her, with his hungry gaze and 
shabby clothes.  He spoke so beautifully as he apologized
to her for his rudeness.  Katie remembered feeling
embarrassing regret when he took his leave.  She'd been 
attracted to him in spite of herself.  

She was just carrying in the basket of dry clothes when 
Maggie called her in to help dish up supper.

"Charlie should've carried that in fer ya," her 
mother said.  "You napped all afternoon and still look
peaked.  If yer truly eating, then yer not getting enough
sleep," Maggie declared as she carefully pulled the
corned beef from the pot of boiling water.

"Ma don't think nobody eats enough, except that
good-fer-nothin' Missy married," Charlie observed as
he tried to pull off a loose piece of meat.  Maggie
slapped his hand away.

"Nonsense.  I think all the boarders eat plenty,"
Maggie said as she sliced the corned beef into paper 
thin slices, intending the meat to stretch to two meals.

"And where is everyone?" Katie asked.

"Mrs. Kearns'll be along soon enough.  She's been coming
home late these days.  Mr. Burkes has a dinner appointment."

"We ain't seen Mr. Fenig fer three days," Charlie said.
"Ma said she's gonna put his clothes out on the curb if
he don't show soon."

"Danny's working again, isn't he?" Katie asked.  Her
brother-in-law in fact had a name, not that the Scully
family chose to use it.

"We'll see how long that lasts," Maggie sniffed. 
"Meanwhile he's carted Missy and the babies out to
Brooklyn, where they don't know a soul."

Maggie had bid farewell to the land of her birth and
crossed an ocean, but she was deeply opposed when
Missy moved a bridge-span away.

When Bill and Mrs. Kearns arrived home from work, 
they all sat down for dinner.  Katie was grateful that
Bill hadn't brought Tom Colton with him.

Mrs. Kearns seemed disappointed that Mr. Burkes was
not at the table.

"I bet he has a date," Bill said.   

"What about you, Bill?   I haven't heard of any young
lady in your life," Katie said.

"Maybe yer not as smart as you think," Bill retorted.

"How's yer new job working out for ya, Mrs. Kearns?"
Maggie asked, with a nod at her children to hold their
tongues.   

"She's doin' factory work now," Charlie piped in.  

Mrs. Kearns smiled at Katie's look of concern.

"Not quite, Charlie.  I'm working in the office of a
factory.  I'm still a bookkeeper, but for a larger
company," she explained.

"Coming up in the world," Maggie noted approvingly.

"Eight stories up, and fifteen minutes to wait for the
elevator," Mrs. Kearns said.

"My elevator at the Flatiron Building goes a hunnert
times faster than that," Charlie said proudly.

"Yer elevator?  What are you, Charlie Mulder maybe?"
Bill teased.

"The elevator's fast enough, but too small with
everyone leaving at once," Mrs. Kearns explained.

"I'd take the stairs," Katie said.

"But they're locked.  We have to leave by the elevator
to show we haven't stolen anything.  I can understand
it for the factory girls, but I would never do that,"
the bookkeeper said.
  
Much as that Sunday three weeks ago, the meal was
interrupted by someone at the front door.  The knocker
slammed frantically and a little voice hello'd for
attention.

"And on your day off," Maggie told Katie
reproachfully.

Yet the visitor hadn't come for Katie but instead for
Dmitri.  It was Anna Penazek, whose father owned the 
corner grocery store.

"Papa said give this to Dmitri," she said.  She held a
battered envelope, almost covered with purple-stamped
ink and exotic stamps.

"That ain't real writing.  Lemme see that," Charlie
said.

"No!"  Anna held her ground, despite Charlie's
advantage in age and size.  "It's extra important 
and it's for Dmitri."

"Then how come you got it?" Charlie asked with a
schoolboy's sneer.

"It came to Papa because the postman couldn't read
the words on the envelope.  And I don't have to tell 
you anyhow!"
 
"Goddamn Russians!" Charlie spat the words at the
little girl.

"Charles Aloysius, that is quite enough!" 
 
Maggie's nagging and crabbing was familiar, but her
unadorned rage was a quiet and frightening sight.

"Ma--"

"You're excused, Charles.  Go wait in the parlor," 
Katie told him quietly.  Charlie paled as he realized 
the extent of his misdeed, and he slunk away from the 
table.

"Dmitri is at work, Anna," Maggie explained as if
nothing had happened.

"I'll bring it to him," Katie said decisively.  "I 
was planning to take a walk anyway."

Katie tucked the letter in her skirt pocket, straightening
her clothes around her.  She hadn't planned on walking
uptown in her shabby clothes, but poor Dmitri needed his 
news--good or bad.  Well, if the rich people thought she 
was a beggar, well, then, it couldn't be helped.

After a mile or two, Katie realized how exhausted she was.
Her mother had been so solicitous--her kindness harder to 
handle than her sharp tongue could ever be.  Guilt washed 
over her as she pictured her mother finding out about Katie's 
double life.  Maggie Scully was opinionated and could seem 
harsh at times, but there was a core of integrity and honor 
that Katie admired.   Maggie would be so disappointed.

Katie longed for the time when she and Mathew could come 
out of the shadows and be together openly and honestly.  
She wasn't emotionally equipped to handle all this skulking 
about.   While marriage had never been Katie's goal in 
life--not like most of the other girls she knew--she 
welcomed marriage's legitimacy.

The letter in her pocket felt as if it was burning through
the fabric.  Dmitri's whole world hung in the balance.  
He'd be bereft or jubilant, determined only by the content
of one dog-eared letter.

Delmonico's glittered like the top of a Christmas tree as
Katie approached the curved front entrance.  While she had 
occasionally eaten the food Dmitri brought home, Katie had
never been in the elegant establishment.  

A doorman stood at the base of the short staircase into the
restaurant, waiting to assist patrons from their carriages.
He eyed Katie as if she was an offensive piece of rubbish 
that had strayed into the entrance of his domain.  Katie 
held her head high, even as she twitched her skirt behind
her to hide the patch.  

"I have a message for one of the waiters," she said 
with as much dignity as she could muster.  At his look of 
disdain she continued.  "Dmitri Yeltsin.  He boards at 
my mother's."

The doorman's expression altered slightly at that bit of
information.  "Very well," he said, ushering her inside.  
He caught the maitre d'hotel's attention and explained 
what Katie needed.

"Ah, Dmitri," the maitre'd said.  "He's broken three dishes 
and two glasses tonight.  I hope you bring him good news.  
It will take him a month to work off the breakage.  
Wait over there.  I'll get him for you."
 
Nodding, Katie complied, moving out of the path of
traffic into the dining room.   A few minutes later,
Dmitri rushed to her, his face as white as his stiff
collar.  She pulled him into a red velvet curtained 
alcove.  If he was going to fall to pieces, he'd need
some privacy.

"Miss Scully, you...you have letter?" he stammered
out.  Katie worried that he might faint dead away before
she got the crumpled paper out of her pocket.

"Yes," she answered.  "Anna Penazek brought it by
at dinner.  Breathe, Dmitri."  She wasn't sure he'd even
heard her as he tore the envelope and with shaking 
hands unfolded the letter.  She watched him mouth
words as he read.  The look of panic on his face 
slowly changed to one of joy.

"Miss Scully!  She is safe!"  Dmitri threw his arms
around her in an impulsive bear hug.  "Sophie got
away from the city.  She has almost enough saved
to buy passage."

"That's wonderful, Dmitri," Katie said, when he
released her and she could finally take a deep
breath.  "I'm so happy for you."

Dmitri went back to his letter, reading it more
intently this time.  Katie moved to the opening
of the alcove, wanting to give him a little
space.  She watched as a large, noisy party left.
The women were beautifully dressed, the men all
in evening clothes.  

A couple entered the restaurant.  The dark-haired
woman was all in blue, diamonds glittering at her 
neck and wrists.  The man was striking--tall and
handsome in a swallowtail coat.  They paused as
the woman spoke to the maitre d'hotel.  Katie felt 
her knees turn to jelly as recognition crushed her.

The man in the swallowtail coat was Mathew Fox.  

"Dmitri," Katie said, her voice shaking.  "Who
is that?"

Dmitri peered out of the alcove.  "The woman in
the blue dress?  Oh, that's Mrs. Fowley.  Very
good customer.  And her new fiance."

"Her fiance?"  A wave of dizziness crashed over
Katie.

"Yes.  Mr. Fox Mulder."

******************************* 

"Miss Scully?  Are you all right, Miss Scully?
You look...like you have pain."

She blinked, raising a shaky hand to her mouth.
"Pain" was too fragile a word to describe what 
Katie was feeling.  

"I...I'm fine," she stammered.  "Just a little
tired."

Katie straightened her spine, willing herself 
not to collapse, not to scream.  

"I am terrible person, Miss Scully.  I have not
thanked you for bringing me letter."  Dmitri 
was looking at her with such kindness and concern.
Katie was afraid she might burst into tears in
front of him.

"I'm glad it was good news," she said, her voice 
shaking.  "I should go.  It's getting late."

Katie peered around the alcove's curtain.  Mathew
and that woman were following the maitre d'hotel
into the restaurant.  As she watched them disappear
from view, Katie wondered if a person could die
of a broken heart.  

With a hurried goodnight, Katie bolted from the
restaurant.  She walked quickly along William 
Street, dodging pedestrians.  She paid no attention
to the direction, her only desire to get as
far away from Delmonico's as possible. 

She'd been a fool.  A complete and utter idiot.  
"I love you," Mathew had said and she'd believed
him.  "We'll honeymoon in Venice," he'd told her 
and she drank his words like sweet nectar.

She had prided herself on logic and acumen.  Katie
was a modern woman who followed the teachings of 
Emma Goldman and rejected the idea that marriage 
was the only option for a woman.  Her nursing career 
had made her useful, given her life purpose.

Katie remembered looking down on silly girls who
read lurid romantic stories where young women were
duped into false marriages and left in ruin.  How
ironic, she thought.  She'd become a character in 
a tawdry novel. 

Her rationality had failed her the moment she'd 
fallen in love with Mathew Fox.  

Except he wasn't Mathew Fox, was he?  He was Fox
Mulder and he was going to marry someone else.  He'd
tricked her like some gullible milkmaid.  She'd been 
a right and proper goose, believing his lies.

Other girls fell in love twice a week, but Katie 
had always known there were things she wanted to 
accomplish, so she guarded her feelings carefully.  

She had given Mathew her heart.  

As Katie walked along block after block, her weeks 
with Mathew Fox passed before her eyes as if she 
were watching a motion picture show.  She saw herself 
tending him after his scuffle with Tom Colton, saw 
them talking the night away.  Katie remembered what
it felt like to kiss Mathew under the boardwalk.  
She relived each caress, each touch, each time they 
made love.  Katie felt bile rise up in her throat at 
that memory and stopped walking.  She took a deep 
breath in an effort not to be sick.

Where was she?  She'd walked so far, so fast and 
hadn't cared which direction she traveled as long
as it took her far from Mathew.  She really had to
stop referring to him as Mathew.  He was Fox Mulder.
Fox Mulder.  She repeated it to herself.  It sounded
ridiculous in her head.  

Exhaustion enveloped her as the emotional burst of 
energy began to fail.  She had to rest, but where?  
Katie couldn't go back to the settlement house.
Mathew would arrive soon, unaware that she'd found him
out.  He'd toss pebbles against her window, expecting 
her to let him in and give him her body.  She most
definitely could not go there.

She couldn't go to the boarding house, either.  Her 
mother had watched her like a hawk today.  Maggie Scully 
was a shrewd, observant woman--traits that had served 
her well as a mother and as proprietress of the boarding 
house.  Ma would know immediately that something was 
wrong and then Bill would find out and harass her 
until it all spilled out. 

She stood on a street corner, with tears in her eyes.  
She was so tired.  Katie looked at the street sign, 
amazed that in her dazed condition she'd managed to 
get to Delancey Street.  Now, she knew where she 
might find rest.

Katie walked along Delancey, until she reached the 
mighty Williamsburg Bridge.  Brooklyn beckoned on 
the other side--a place where there were no memories 
of Mathew Fox to torment her.  

It was a good thing she wasn't inclined to be hysterical, 
Katie mused as she paused on the bridge to look down at 
the murky water.  In the melodramatic novels, the wronged 
heroine would have attempted to toss herself into the 
dark river, only to be rescued by the stout-hearted
hero.  But no hero was likely to save Katie.

She was exhausted almost to the point of insensibility 
when she arrived at her sister's apartment in Williamsburg.  
She trudged up the three flights of stairs, pulling herself
along by the railing.  The smell of cabbage and onions hung 
in the air from the suppers that had been cooked that 
evening.  In one of the second floor apartments, a baby 
was crying.

"Katie!" Danny Murphy exclaimed as he opened the door.
"Is anything wrong?"

"Everything is fine, Danny," she said peering past him
through the parlor down the long hall to the kitchen.  
"Is Missy home?"

"Yes, of course.  Come in," he said.  He still looked 
worried.  "You're sure everything is all right?  Your 
family?"

"Everyone's fine," she said.  Considering the Scullys'
bad opinion of Danny, it was generous of him to ask about 
them.  "Where's Missy?" 

"She'll be getting the boys to bed.  I'll fetch her."  
Danny studied her face for a moment before leaving Katie 
alone in the parlor.

She'd always liked her brother-in-law.  Danny was a good 
man, who loved Missy and his sons.  He was a meat cutter 
who made a good pay which didn't always make it home to 
his family.  

Unfortunately, like so many Irish boys, Danny had a 
problem with the drink.   Too often, Danny could be 
found at the tavern down the street and too often, 
he drank until he forgot his responsibilities to Missy 
and their sons.  At least tonight, there was no scent 
of whiskey clinging to Danny.  

"Katie?," Missy asked as she came into the parlor through 
the little "railroad" hallway of the apartment.  "What in 
the sweet name a heaven are ya doin' here so late?  You 
look like you walked all the way from the old country."

"Only from New York," Katie said, with a faint smile.  
"I wanted to see you." Katie hoped she sounded matter of 
fact, and that her knees wouldn't buckle in front of her 
sister.

Missy took a good look at her sister, crossing over to 
take Katie's hands in hers.  "You better sit down before 
you fall down.  Come on, I'll put on some coffee."

Katie allowed herself to be led down the hall into the 
kitchen.  She sat at the table and watched Missy measure
out the coffee and fill the pot.  When it was on the 
stove, Missy sat opposite her sister.

"Are you going to tell me what's gotcha so upset you
walked all the way to Brooklyn at this time of night?"

"I made a mistake," Katie said, covering her face with
both hands.  "A terrible, terrible mistake."

"You made a mistake?  Minnow, yer the smartest, 
strongest person I know.  What kind of mistake could
you have made?"  At Katie's rueful look, she nodded.
"Was that fella of yours the mistake?"

"How...how did you know?"

"It's always a fella.  What happened?  Another girl?"

"That's not the half of it.  He...he wasn't who he said 
he was."

"They never are, are they?  They say they'll love you
forever and the next thing you know, they're down at
the pub every night."

"Oh Missy, I wish that was all it was.  He said he loved
me and I believed him.  But he didn't even tell me his
real name.  He's rich--very rich, and it turns out he's 
engaged to be married.  He lied to me about everything."

"Oh my poor sweet, I'm so sorry," Missy said, taking both
of Katie's hands in her own. 

"I can't believe I was so stupid," Katie said.  "How 
could I have been so gullible.  'We'll have a little
cottage just big enough for two'," she mocked.  "I've
been a complete dolt."

"You were a girl in love," Missy said, cupping Katie's
cheek.  "Men...men lie."

"Not all men," Katie protested. 

"They say what they think you want to hear, and if it
sounds pretty, they believe it themselves."

"Da wasn't like that."

"No?  How many times did he tell Ma he'd sell that
cursed boat and buy her a house in the country?  Men
tell you pretty promises about how they wish things
would be."

As if on cue, Danny Murphy came into the kitchen, a 
gentle smile on his face.  "Well, my dears, it's off
to bed with me.  Mick and I'll be bedding down on the
floor like soldiers.  He thinks it's very grand.  
Jimmy isn't all that excited--he'll be stayin' in
his crib."

"That sounds like fun," Missy said.  "Why don't you
get that old quilt of Ma's."

Katie fought back tears at her brother-in-law's 
unstated kindness.

After Danny bid them both good night, Missy clapped
a hand on Katie's shoulder.  "You're dead on your
feet.  I'll get you a nightgown."

It was a testament to the bond of sisterhood that 
Missy didn't ask Katie if she wanted to stay and 
Katie didn't offer false protestations of going
home.  

Perhaps it was the security of sharing a bed with 
her big sister as she had in the bosom of childhood,
but Katie slept the night through.  

She woke the next morning with her nephew's sticky
fingers on her face.

"Michael, leave your aunt alone," Missy scolded from
the doorway.  "Go back to sleep, Katie, it's early
yet."

Katie sat up and Michael climbed into her lap.

"I have to get back," she said.  

"I'll have breakfast on the table in a minute," said
Missy.  She held the baby against her hip.  "Michael,
come back and finish your porridge."

"Thank you, Missy, but I don't have time," Katie said.
"I'll be late as it is."  She had a long walk ahead
of her.

"It's only seven.  Eat your breakfast and you can
catch the El."

"I was going to walk," Katie said.  She wasn't
carrying so much as a penny, and somehow asking Missy
for money felt more embarrassing than confessing that
she'd been tricked like a farmgirl.

"I'll give you the fare, Kate.  I'm your sister."

Missy had enough of their mother in her that Katie
didn't try to argue.  She ate her breakfast and 
caught the El.

She arrived at the settlement house feeling grimy and
disheveled, but also strong and calm.  She'd been a
fool, and her heart would ache for a long time because
of it.  But there were people who needed her and she
wouldn't let them down.  

Shayna was waiting.  

"I was worried," she said.

"I'm sorry.  I spent the night at my sister's," Katie
answered.  

"It's good for a girl to visit her sister," Shayna
said.  

Shayna didn't press for details, didn't even ask any
questions.  

"That boy came around last night.  Hollerin' and
throwin' rocks and bang-bang-bang on the door," she
continued

"You were right about him," Katie said.

"I saw it in my heart, but better if I was wrong."

"There's another girl, and they're going to get
married."

"He should rot in hell!"

Katie was stunned yet comforted by her friend's
vehemence.  

"You shouldn't talk that way here," she said, but
Shayna had only begun.

"All his teeth should fall out, except one he can keep
for a toothache.  Blood and pus should drip out from
his ears.  Maggots should gobble his eyeballs."

Katie was torn between laughing and crying.

"You're making me sick," she said.

Shayna grew quiet, and then she surprised Katie with a
quick hug.

"Let everything I wish on him come true.  Or half, or
even one tenth.  That's all I'm gonna say."  She
released the embrace, and Katie saw she had tears in
her eyes.

"I'm going upstairs to change my clothes," Katie said.

"Go ahead.  I'll set up for the classes."

Shayna was capable of managing all the morning's
activities, and Katie thought about spending the day
in her room or riding up to the museum.  But it wasn't
her work that she wished to escape, it was her pain,
and that wasn't possible.

As Katie descended the stairs, she heard Shayna
shouting at the front door, and then she heard Mathew.
 
Not Mathew. There was no Mathew.  

"You go jump in the ocean and set yourself on fire!" 
Shayna screamed.

"Would you please just tell her I'm here?" Not-Mathew
asked.

"I'll tear off your skin!"

"For pity's sake, Shayna--"

"A wife you want?  The devil's daughter you should
marry!"

"Katie wasn't home last night.  Just tell me if she's
all right--"

"The pharaoh's plagues on you!  The scabies of Job!"

"I'll be back later, if you would be so kind as to let
her know."

Katie stood frozen on the staircase until she was sure
he had gone.

He had tricked her--foxed her, as her mother would
say.  He had foxed her into giving him her heart.  He
had lied about everything, right down to his own name.
 
He didn't deserve her heart and yet he still owned it.
She listened to his voice as he argued with Shayna. 
She heard the same mix of confidence and confusion
that she'd heard the first time he spoke to her.  So
refined, so well-spoken. 

She heard Shayna's furious curses and shuddered,
wondering how could anyone wish such evils upon
Mathew.  And at the same time she knew there was no
Mathew, and that the man on the doorstep was a
shameless swindler.

"Ptooey!  He's gone," Shayna said, turning around. 
Katie saw she was brandishing a broom.

"You chased him away with a broom?" Katie asked.

"Because he's dirt!  You should have seen me, shaking
the broomstick and telling him what should happen. 
And him, trembling with fright like a cowardly
insect!"

"I'm sorry I missed it," Katie lied.  If she had seen
Mathew, she might have lost all resolve and thrown
herself at his feet.

But she would have to face him, and soon.  She was
fortunate that her secret had kept when her visitor
was a stealthy nobody.  A noisy millionaire was
impossible to hide.

"You know what, Katie?  You should come for dinner
tonight."

"Thank you for asking, Shayna, but it's far too much
trouble."

"What trouble?  Another potato, an extra knedlich in
the soup?  And afterwards, you can join us for Shul."

"Shul?  I wouldn't understand a word."

"What understand?  You sit, you stand, you sing, you
pray."

"Shayna, I'll be fine."

Katie appreciated that her friend didn't want her to
be alone tonight, but now that the shock was wearing
off, she needed some time to herself.  She needed to
face what had happened and to understand how she had
let it happen.

She busied herself with routine activities, but all
around her were reminders of  him.  The table where
they ate breakfast.  The sofa where he sat the night
of his fight with Tom.  The jam pot.

Katie thought about moving.  She loved her job too
much to give it up, but she didn't have to live here.

"Didja hear a word I said?"

Shayna's voice startled her.  Katie felt numb and
distant.

"There's a man in the parlor who seems to be hurt. 
Mr. Frohike brought him in," Shayna said.

Sparked to life, Katie hurried to the parlor.  Mr.
Frohike was with his friend from the other night, the
one who was named for Johnny Ringo.  She recognized
the man on the couch as well.

"He's one of Ma's boarders," she told Shayna.  "Mr.
Fenig, can you hear me?"

"He looks like someone gave him a good crack on the
head," Shayna said.  "Oy, Katie, he's got all over him
pishetz.  Get him off the couch, quick."

"He came to our office and said he had information to
give us," said Mr. Langly.

"About an international conspiracy," said Mr. Frohike.

"Information and evidence," said Mr. Langly. 

"He's wet, Katie.  The stink will be forever," Shayna
complained.

"What happened to him?" Katie asked.

"He had a fit.  First his eyes rolled up in his head, 
and then he fell on the floor and started thrashing," 
Frohike said.

"That's how he hurt his head," Langly explained.

"Mr. Fenig, open your eyes," Katie said.  "Mr. Fenig!"

He opened his eyes, looked around and then closed
them.

"Wanna sleep," he muttered.

"At least get off his wet trousers," Shayna pleaded.

"He seems to be all right," Katie said.

"Yeah, but can you make him wake up?  He told us he
had proof," Langly said.

"We should call Dr. Vitigliano," Katie said.

"We don't need a doctor, we need an upholstery man,"
Shayna groaned.

"Call him, Shayna.  I don't want to leave Mr. Fenig
alone."

Shayna nodded to herself.

"You know, that's a good idea.  A visit from Dr. V.
would be not such a terrible thing."

Katie cleaned Mr. Fenig's head wound but didn't place
a bandage.  Shayna found some suitable clothing from
the donation bin and they changed him into dry
trousers.
 
When Vincent arrived, Mr. Fenig was awake and
chattering nervously.

"Leon Czolgosz, one man with one gun, and the
President dead.  Do you really think that's all there
was to it."

"The McKinley assassination?  There were thousands of
witnesses," Frohike said.

"They caught him red-handed," said Langly.

"A crazy anarchist," said Frohike.

"Exactly.  A crazy anarchist, right where they needed
him to be.  But Teddy disappointed them.  They won't
make the same mistake twice," Mr. Fenig said.

Vincent interrupted the diatribe to ask Mr. Fenig some
simple questions.

"Back off, mac, this was getting interesting," Langly
complained.

"Everyone out.  This is a medical examination."  Katie
commanded, and they obeyed.

Mr. Fenig knew his name and where he was.  He told the
doctor he'd had spells like this before, even back to
his childhood.

"His injury is superficial, but I'm concerned about
the way he's talking," Vincent said.

"I've known him for several years, doctor.  This is
normal for Mr. Fenig."

Vincent urged Mr. Fenig to rest for the remainder of
the day.  Katie placed a dressing over the wound and
offered to take him back to his room, but instead he
went off with his new friends, ecstatic that someone
would listen at last.

Shayna came into the parlor with a bucket of steaming
water and a scrub brush.

"There's a fresh pot of coffee and a nice babke in the
kitchen.  You two get out of my way so I can clean,"
she said.

"I'm sure Dr. Vitigliano has other calls," Katie said.

"Why, no," said Vincent.  "I'd very much like a cup of
coffee."

Shayna could barely contain her glee as she set about
scrubbing the sofa's upholstery.   Katie would have
to curtail Shayna's matchmaking attempts or she'd find
herself on a date with the milkman.

Katie led Vincent into the kitchen.  As she fetched
the china cups and saucers and placed them on the 
table, she tried to force her mind away from thoughts
of Mathew.  Unfortunately, the memories were far too
strong and she was flooded with images of kissing
Mathew, of his hands tangling in her hair.  Her eyes
clouded over with tears and she sniffed.

"Katie," Vincent said, laying a gentle hand on her
arm.   "What's wrong?"  

"Nothing," she said, shaking her head and smiling at
him.  "Nothing important."  

Katie poured the coffee into the cups and retrieved 
the milk pitcher from the icebox.  She and Mathew 
drank their coffee from the chipped white mugs that 
Katie had carefully left in the cupboard.  She would
never drink from them again.

"Is there anything in the world more wonderful than
fresh coffee?" Vincent asked as he took a sip.

Katie stirred milk into her coffee.  Why did it feel
as if she was betraying Mathew by drinking coffee with
an old friend?  There was no Mathew.  She had to keep
reminding herself--there was no Mathew.  

"Wait until you taste Shayna's babke," she said, 
passing a slice to Vincent.  "It's as light as a 
feather."  
 
They ate babke and sipped coffee and gradually, Katie
began to relax and forget herself.  Vincent regaled her
with funny stories about how his mama and her sisters  
argued every time they were together and pined for each
other when they were apart.  

He asked her opinion about the odd symptoms one of his
patients had been experiencing and told her what 
Dr. DaSilva thought was causing them.  And he asked her
to have dinner with him on Saturday.

Katie heard herself say yes.

If she could have revoked her answer gracefully, she 
probably would have done so.  Vincent was far too good
and kind to be hurt.  Was it fair to see him when she 
was still in love with Mathew?  But Mathew was no more
than a character in a story, and she had to move on with 
her life.  Despite Shayna's scheming and dreaming, Katie 
was only going to have dinner with an old friend.

Vincent took his leave, arranging to come by for her
at seven the next night.  Shayna was in the kitchen as
soon as the door had closed behind him.

"So?" she asked.

"You weren't listening at the door?"

"Katie Scully, I can't believe that after all these 
years, you would accuse me of...of...well, I can't 
help how voices carry in this old house."

"Shayna," Katie laughed as her friend continued to 
bluster.  "They only carry when you're pressing an 
ear against the door."   
  
"I'm gonna forgive you because you have a broken
heart.  Well, I better get the soup pot on the stove.
You sure you won't come and eat with us?"

"No, but thank you.  I'm going to get some work done
around here and make it an early night."

"All right.  But you holler if you need anything.
Anything at all.  Anybody comes around and bothers
you--they'll answer to me and my broom."

When Shayna was gone, Katie set a large pot of 
water on the stove to boil and went up to change 
into her old skirt and blouse.  She tied a scarf 
around her hair, grateful that the day had been so
cool--perfect weather for giving the old place a 
good cleaning.  

Perhaps some mindless hard work would keep Katie's
thoughts in check.  The kitchen floor needed scrubbing.
Maybe she could obliterate Mathew's footprints and 
thereby his memory.

The bucket and scrub brush were under the sink, where
Shayna had left them after she removed all traces of
Max Fenig from the sofa.  Katie filled the bucket 
with hot, soapy water, rolled up her sleeves and 
carried the chairs into the hall.  

Finally, she sunk to her knees and plunged her 
arm into the bucket, wincing at the heat of the
water.  She pictured Mathew's beautiful, lying
face on the floor as she savagely scrubbed.

She had finished nearly half the floor when she
sat back on her heels and tucked a disobedient
strand of hair back under the scarf.  Her back 
ached and her knees hurt, neither being much of a
distraction from the pain in her heart.  With a
sigh, she resumed her scrubbing.

The prospect of a lonely evening stretched before 
Katie. The settlement house was traditionally 
quiet on Friday nights.  So many of the patrons
were devout Jews who observed their sabbath and
couldn't attend activities after sunset.  She 
usually enjoyed Fridays, spending time with her
family, and of late, spending time with Mathew.
Damn Mathew.  She supposed Fridays would be ruined 
along with everything else.

A knock at the back door startled Katie out of
her musings.   A chill ran down her spine as a
familiar voice called out.

"Katie!  Are you in there?  It's Mathew."

She could have ignored him and perhaps he'd go away,
but sooner or later, Katie knew she had to face 
him.  She clambered up from her knees and carefully
picked her way across the wet floor.
 
"Mathew?" she asked as she opened the door.  "Mathew
Fox?  Or would that be Fox Mulder."

She watched the color drain from his face as 
realization hit him.  He closed his eyes for a 
moment as if he was in physical pain.  A wave
of sympathy passed over Katie, but she studiously
ignored it.  

"Oh my God.  Katie, I can explain--"  

"You can explain?  I'd love to hear it.  Yes, why 
don't you explain to me why you pretended to be 
someone you're not."

"I was afraid you wouldn't see me any more.  But I 
never pretended about what was in my heart, Katie.  
I love you."

"You love me?"  

"More than my life," he said, reaching out to 
touch her.  Katie stepped away from him.  "I
never lied about how I felt about you, Katie."

"You just lied about everything else.  If you
really loved me, you wouldn't have treated me 
like a...a...what was I, Mathew, some cheap 
little tart you kept on the side?"

"No, never that.  You were--are--my life.  When
I'm with you, I feel alive.  And I meant everything 
I told you, Katie.  I want us to be married."

It was all she could do not to throw the scrub brush
at him.  The audacity of the man, telling her that lies
were truth.  He'd try to convince her that lead was gold 
with his next breath.

"I don't think your fiancee would approve of that, 
Math...Mr. Mulder.  I saw you together last night at 
Delmonico's.   She's beautiful.   The two of you seem
very well suited."

"Oh God," he muttered.  "It was all for show.  Diana
knew I wouldn't marry her, she just wanted to break if
off on her own terms to keep her dignity."

"You really think I'm that gullible?  I read the 
announcement in the newspaper."

"I knew nothing about that.  You have to believe
me," he pleaded.

"I want you to leave," Katie said.

"Please, Katie."

"Goodbye, Mr. Mulder."

*******************************

"You have beautiful hair," sighed Amy Jacobs as she
glided the brush through Katie's long russet hair.

"Then why are you trying to change it?" Katie asked.

"Because a girl should make the most of her assets,
especially when she's going out with a dreamy young
doctor."

"Ouch!  Amy, what are you trying to do?"  It was
weariness and indifference that had made Katie agree
to let Amy "try something different" with her hair.  

"Sorry.  Sit still, I'm going to make you into a
goddess."

"I think you're more excited about this date than I
am."

"It's like a story.  The beautiful nurse and the
handsome doctor who rescues her."

"Rescues her from what?"

"Oh, I don't know.  Her life of drudgery?"

"Or maybe it's the insane English teacher who's 
trying to pull her hair out."

Amy was excited, Shayna was excited--the whole
neighborhood, it seemed, was excited.  Vincent arrived
promptly at seven, awkward and flustered, a bouquet of
flowers clutched in his fist.

"Good evening, doctor.  So, where are you taking her?"
Amy asked.

"Miss Jacobs, so good to see you," Vincent answered. 
"I, er, thought we might go to a restaurant."

Katie put a hasty end to Amy's questions.

"Amy, perhaps you could put these beautiful flowers 
in some water.  Did you leave your motor running,
Vincent?  We'd best be off, then."

Vincent's nervousness was painful to behold.  Katie
was aware that they had an audience as  they drove
away.  Motor cars were becoming more commonplace but
a fine machine still drew plenty of attention in
the neighborhood.  

"I've reserved a table at Delmonico's," Vincent
informed her.

"No!" she cried, startling herself as well as her
companion.  "I mean, it's so... I just don't think 
I'd feel at home there."

"The food is delicious," Vincent said, clearly
disappointed.  "But it's no matter, I know a place
you'll find more 'haimish.'"

"I'm certain I'd enjoy that more," said Katie,
mustering her enthusiasm.  Vincent was a dear friend,
and she didn't want to infect him with her gloom.

They drove north, past Central Park, and Katie's
curiosity grew.

"I'd have to guess you're taking me to the Polo
Grounds," she said.

Vincent laughed.

"They don't play baseball at night, silly.  How 
could they see the ball?"

They arrived at their destination.  Vincent took
Katie's arm and led her down a flight of stairs 
to a small, noisy restaurant.

A portly man in a black jacket greeted them at the
door.

"No room, no tables.  Next time you call first."

Vincent would be so embarrassed, Katie thought.  It
was all her fault, for ruining his plans for
Delmonico's.

"It's all right, Vincent.  Let's go," she said.

Vincent, however, was grinning.

"Come on, Tio Carlo, knock it off," he said.
 
"Eh, get ovaheah!"

Vincent and the man embraced, and then Katie found
herself caught up in a huge hug.

"Mr. Bigshot doctor don't have no manners," he said.  
"I'm Carlo Franchetti, his favorite uncle."

After the introductions were completed to Uncle
Carlo's satisfaction, Vincent and Katie were seated
at a small table near the back of the room.

"You don't need no menus, Vincenzo.  I'm gonna take
care of you right."

Not only Uncle Carlo, but half the restaurant seemed
to be related to Vincent.  There were some friendly
acknowledgments all around, and then, as if by
agreement, almost everyone kept a respectful distance.
The lone exception was the waiter, who seemed to feel
that his services at the table entitled him to share
his observations.

"Don't worry about it," Katie told Vincent.  "If it
was my family, they'd be pulling up chairs and asking
you to declare your intentions." 

"I'm sure someone's taking notes, to report back to 
my mother.  And Uncle Carlo keeps winking at me over
your shoulder," Vincent said.

"You see what we would have missed if we'd gone to
Delmonico's?" Katie laughed.

Vincent shook his head.

"In so many ways people everywhere are all the same. 
But sometimes I wonder."

"What do you mean?" Katie asked.

"I'm thinking about my private patients, compared to
my clinic patients," he answered.

In addition to the work he did for the settlement
house and surrounding neighborhood, Vincent was a
junior partner to a doctor with a lucrative and
exclusive practice.
 
"Different diseases."  Katie nodded.  She thought
about undernourished children with dark hollows below
their eyes, and textile workers with coughs that 
never went away.

"Different in how they respond.  So cold and stoic. 
So haughty."

"Perhaps they see you as an outsider," she suggested.

"I suppose, but I'm talking about how they treat each
other.  There's a distance, even within families."

"That doesn't seem possible," Katie protested.  "They
must have feelings like everyone else."

"I'm sure you're right, but they scarcely show them."

"I think that's sad."

"I do too.  But what do I know, I'm just a fiery
Italian."

Katie couldn't help wondering about the Mulder family.
About Fox.  Fox--she fixed the name in her head. 
Fox, not Mathew.

"Maybe they don't think love is important," she
ventured.

"Not as important as many other things," Vincent 
said after some consideration.  "I suppose they're 
a bit like royalty, where alliances matter more 
than romance."

Soon, of course, conversation turned back to their
shared passion, medicine.  Katie barely noted the
passage of time, except as new dishes appeared on the
table and old ones were cleared.

"She don't eat nothing," commented the waiter as he
removed a platter.  "But that's good, Vin.  She'll get
fat soon enough once you're married."

Vincent said something in Italian, provoking a sharp
response from the waiter.  After a few more heated
exchanges, the matter appeared to be settled.  

"Is everything all right?" Katie asked tentatively
after the waiter withdrew.

"Sure.  We're cousins."

It was all in all an enjoyable evening, although Katie
felt a measure of relief when at last it was time to
leave.  The restaurant was a little too warm for
comfort.

"My goodness but that was a lot of food," Katie said
as Vincent drove her home.

"Far more food than a person should eat," he agreed.  

Many of the dishes had been strange to her, but she
found most of them delicious.

"I loved those kreplachs," Katie said.

"Kreplachs?  Oh, I think you mean the ravioli."

"Ravioli.  Yes, it was wonderful."

"What about the octopus?"

Katie laughed.

"Don't try to tell me I ate octopus!"

"OK.  I won't."

When Vincent let her out at her door, Katie thanked
him for a very pleasant evening, and she meant it. 
For many hours she'd thought about Fox only fleetingly.  

With a sigh she climbed the stairs and went to bed, 
knowing that sleep would evade her.  She could read 
all night, if she had to, but "Pride and Prejudice" 
was a mockery now.  She would catch up on the medical 
journals, difficult reading that commanded all her 
concentration.
 
She slept at last, waking early to the imagined sound
of pebbles against her window.  She knew she should
try for more sleep, but she found herself too
uncomfortable.  She'd fallen asleep reading about the
signs and symptoms of various poisons, and now she
felt distinctly nauseated.  For a few seconds she
tried to reason with her stomach, but then she bolted
out of bed, reaching the basin with no time to spare.
 
She retched forcefully, bout after bout of vomiting. 
When she finished at last, she found herself so weak
and wet with perspiration that she wondered if she
might not be ill, but it was more likely that the
strange foods combined with her bedtime reading was
the cause.  And sick or well, she did not want to
share the room with the full basin.  She carried it
downstairs.

Katie felt better after her chore was completed.  She
washed and dressed, wondering if she might not go to
the early Mass and avoid her mother's scrutiny until
noon.

Shayna would be unavoidable, but Katie was almost
glad.  Shayna's support, and Missy's, would help her
survive.  She didn't feel guilty facing them, the way
she did with Ma.

Shayna was sitting in the kitchen when Katie came down
again.

"Good morning," Katie said.

"Nu?" Shayna asked.

"It was nice," Katie said.

"Nice?  So when will you see him again?"

"We have clinic tomorrow, Shayna.  You know that."

"So don't tell me.  It was only me who found him for
you."

Katie smiled.

"He took me up to 115th Street."

"He couldn't find any place in New York?"

"His uncle's restaurant."

"Oh, Katie, that's good then.  He took you to meet his
family, and on the first date."

"I don't think that was his design."

"You see how it works, with an honest boy?"  Katie's
face must have betrayed her pain, because Shayna was
instantly contrite.  "Oy, my big mouth!  Go on, Katie,
tell me about your nice dinner."

"I haven't seen so much food since your Seder."

Shayna beamed.
 
"And when you think the meal is over, they bring you
something else.  And when you can't eat another bite,
they bring out fruit."
 
Shayna nodded her approval.

"You should eat fruit."

"No," Katie said, with a little too much force.  
"Right now, I couldn't eat anything.  Before Mass,
I mean."

Shayna nodded her head, a thoughtful expression on
her face.  "You feel okay?"

"I'm fine," Katie assured her.  The one thing she didn't
need was Shayna fussing over a little upset stomach.

"That's good.  You look a little blechedikh, though.  
And you know with the windows open, you hear all kind 
of noises early in the morning.  I thought maybe you
weren't feeling well."

"I'm fine, Shayna.  Oh dear, look at the time.  If I 
hurry, I can make seven o'clock Mass.  Can you hold 
down the fort?"

"I'll be a regular Sam Houston," Shayna said.  "You
go."

Katie's old straw hat hung by the back door.  
Pressing it atop her hair, she pinned it down.  
Never again would she wear the smart little bonnet 
trimmed with cherries.  She'd bought that had to 
impress Mathew who in all likelihood had found it 
cheap and shoddy.  Maybe Amy would like the little 
hat.  After all, it had been so pretty. 
 
The day was warm, even at such an early hour.  The
smells of the city were intensified in the heat,
adding to Katie's nausea.  Her shirtwaist was limp 
by the time she reached church.  

Any hopes of avoiding scrutiny were dashed as she 
spotted her mother and Charlie walking down the center 
aisle.  As they turned to enter their pew, Charlie
spotted Katie and waved.  She'd assumed her mother 
would go to the 8:30 as she often did in the summer.  
Quietly dropping into a seat next to Maggie, Katie's 
mind reeled with memories of a Sunday weeks ago when 
she'd basked in the glow of love.

She returned to the settlement house after church, 
hoping she might feel better after a cup of tea and 
a rest.  She stretched out on her bed, trying
to catch the occasional stray breeze through the 
open window, dozing to the sounds from the street
below.  An hour later, she got up feeling only 
slightly better.

As she walked to her mother's to help cook lunch, 
Katie wondered how long it would be until her mind 
didn't circle back to Mathew Fox and the tiny parcel
of days that she had been in love.

"You look like the last rose o' summer," Maggie Scully
said when Katie walked into the kitchen.  "Sit down,
for pity's sake."

"I'm fine, Ma," Katie said with more certainty than
she felt.  She took an apron down from the hook by
the stove and tied it around her waist.  "What can
I do?"

"You can shell those if you want," her mother said, 
nodding at a large bowl filled with pea pods.  

Maggie bustled around the kitchen, stirring here, 
basting there.  The kitchen sweltered as the oven 
radiated heat.  Katie paused to draw the back of
her hand over her forehead.

"Where's Missy?" she asked.  Her sister had to be
somewhere in the boarding house as Katie had spotted 
an unwilling Charlie minding Michael on the front 
stoop when she came in.

"Puttin' Jimmy down for a sleep.  Poor mite was so
fussy.  'Tis no wonder after that long ride on the El.
And that husband of hers leavin' her to carry two
babies all the way from Brooklyn."

"Danny's not here?"

"He's 'under the weather', according to Missy.  
Hung over, more likely.  Lazy, good for nothing..."

"All right, Ma," Missy said from the doorway.  "What
needs doin'?"

If Missy had heard her mother's diatribe, she 
didn't let on.  

"You might as well peel those potatoes," Maggie said
on her way to check the contents of the oven.

"How are you?" Missy asked softly as she brought the
bowl of potatoes over to the table where Katie stood
shelling peas.  She nudged her sister with her elbow.

"I'm fine," Katie answered, nudging back.  "How are
you?"

"Cramps like the dickens, and it's hotter than a
furnace.  Ninety degrees out, and she's got the oven
goin'."

"It wouldn't be Sunday dinner without something hot
and hearty on the table," Katie whispered. 

"Maybe we can talk her into a picnic next week."

Katie responded with a perfect but even quieter
imitation of their mother:

"Aye, that would be a fine spectacle, eatin' outside
like hobos."

Maggie had definite ideas about Sunday dinner, and
fortunately she didn't hear her daughters' whispers.

"I found us a nice leg of mutton," Maggie announced as
she closed the oven door.  "I'll roast those potatoes
in the drippin's."

The heat of the kitchen added to the thought of the
heavy meal to come made Katie flush.

"Aren't you hot, Ma?" Missy asked.

"And I suppose people don't have to eat when it's hot?
Give thanks yer not cold," Maggie answered.

Katie smiled.  Their mother could be so predictable.

Missy decided to change the subject.

"Mr. Fenig told me you took care of him, after his
spell," she said.

"Ach, yes," Maggie said.  "I had no idea the poor man
was ill."

Katie wondered if Mr. Fenig's illness was the only
reason Ma had softened toward him.

"Is he working again?" she asked.

"More than ever.  I was wonderin', Katie, do you think
that's what gave him his spell?" Maggie asked.

Katie pondered.  She'd heard of hatmakers with
terrible nerve problems, and of course dozens of other
diseases connected with particular occupations.

"What kind of work does he do?" she asked.

"He reads newspapers," Maggie said.

"Really?  They pay him for that?" Missy asked.

"Because he reads hundreds of papers, and he cuts out
the stories people want to read.  It's a clipping
service."

"I've heard of that.  If George M. Cohan wants to know
what they're saying about him in Chicago or San
Francisco, he pays for someone to look for his name in
all the papers," Katie said.

"Oh, I get it.  But that's a lot of reading," said
Missy.

"That's what I was thinkin'.  Maybe that's what gave
him his spell," Maggie said.

Katie remembered that Mr. Fenig's fits went back to
his childhood.

"I don't think so," she said.

When the peas were shelled and the last potato was
peeled, Maggie suggested that the mutton could cook
without any help from the girls.  

"Let's take a walk," Katie suggested.  "I'll buy you a
Coca-Cola."

The blazing streets were a relief after the sweltering
kitchen as the two sisters walked to Penazek's
grocery.

"If I didn't have my monthly, I'd be on the beach with
the kids."

Katie was about to offer her help for the outing, when
something else caught her attention.

"We use to always get it at the same time," she
commented.  "Maybe it's because you moved to
Brooklyn..."

Missy's face was pure concern.

"Katherine, you're late," she said.

"A few days," Katie conceded.  "But I've had a nasty
shock."

"Oh, Minnow. . ."
 
Katie was about to protest.  Surely the horror of Fox
Mulder's lies was enough to throw her system into
chaos.  And last night she'd stuffed herself until she
was sick.  Couldn't that make her late?

But she didn't protest, because what Missy suggested
now seemed not only possible but certain.

On some level, she had realized something was very 
wrong, almost as if some uninvolved bystander had 
counted the days going by and watched her be sick.  
But she'd pushed any thought of a baby out of her head
as firmly as she'd closed the door behind Fox Mulder.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what would she do?

"It'll be OK," Missy said.

"How?  How will it be OK?" Katie felt like she was
choking.

"I don't know," Missy admitted.  "What about Tom
Colton?"

"My God, Missy, no!"  Katie felt tears form.

"Then you'll stay with us in Brooklyn.   My widowed
sister.  And we'll find a lawyer.  That rich boy will
have to pay."

"Missy, stop, just stop.  I can't think right now!"

"Think about the baby, Katie.  Think about what that
boy did to you."

"He wasn't trying to hurt me."

Gradually, Katie had come to understand why she'd
been so easily deceived.  Mathew believed his deception.
He'd gotten so caught up in his make-believe world,
he'd drawn her in along with himself.  But Katie
lived in the real world and had to live with the
consequences.  

"It will be all right," Missy assured her again. 
"We'll go get our Coca-Cola, and we'll figure
something out later."

For the remainder of the afternoon, Katie heard
everything around her and responded with exaggerated
interest, but she felt numb, as she had when Da died. 
She knew nothing would ever be the same.

Mr. Fenig was enjoying his new status at the table. 
Professor Burkes was particularly fascinated by Max's
theory regarding the Prohibition Pary.

"So the real goal of the temperance movement is to
prohibit alcohol so they can make a fortune by selling
it illegally?" he asked.

"There's a man from another city."  Fenig leaned
forward.  "I found him in Omaha.  I found him in
Detroit.  And Cincinnati and Kansas City and
Philadelphia and San Francisco, and they introduce 
him as a friend and ally from another city."

"Then he's the one who wants the ban?" Burkes asked.

"He gives them the money, and he tells them what the
others have planned.  And when he's in Philadelphia
they say he's a friend from Detroit, but in Detroit
they say he's from Cleveland."

"And how do you know about him?" the professor asked.

"I read the papers.  All the papers.  And Mr. Alex
Krycek can't be from everyplace, but never the place
where he is."

Burkes stopped smiling.

"Stranger things have turned out to be true," he
allowed.

"And not just the Prohibitionists.  I find him with
the Anarchists and sometimes the unions.  But he's
always from another city."

The table was hushed.

"So he goes from one meeting to the next, and he tells
them what to do?  Pays them so that they do it?  By
God I wish I had his job," said Bill.

"But that's mean," Charlie protested.  "He's foxin'
people to do what he wants without even knowin' it! 
'Cause they want folks to quit their drinkin', and he
wants only to sell 'em their beer!"

"See, Charlie, you gotta ask yourself.  Wouldja rather
be one of the people gettin' foxed, or wouldja rather
be on the side that's foxin' 'em?"

"He's right, Bill, it's terrible!  At least it would
be, if it was true," Missy said.

Katie frowned, remembering something.

"At the settlement house, a man gave us a large gift
to use as we wished.  And he didn't want to say who
gave it."

"Was it him?  Was it Alex Krycek?" Doris Kearns asked
in a whisper.

"No, another name.  And now I know who gave the gift. 
Mr. William Mulder," Katie said.

"My friends know his son," Fenig said proudly, and
Katie realized she truly had gone numb inside, because
she didn't flinch.

Later, in the kitchen, when Katie and Missy were
helping with the clean up, Maggie was still pondering
Fenig's strange story.

"I know what I believe, that drink can be a pure evil
for some folks," she said, with a sideways glance at
Missy.  "But shuttin' the saloons?  It's like throwin'
out the honey to keep away the flies."   

"Ma, I gotta tell you somethin'," Missy said suddenly.
"I think I'm expectin' again."

"What are you sayin', girl?  Haven't ya any sense?"
Maggie asked, a catch in her voice.

"I'm not sure yet.  I just thought you should know."  

Maggie went out the back door to throw the dirty
dishwater out, and Katie shot her sister a rueful look.

After the kitchen was clean, Katie, Missy and their
mother went to a matinee leaving Charlie to watch the
babies.  He groused mightily that this was work suitable
for a girl until Missy slipped him a nickel.

The movie house was dark and not quite as hot as outside.
Katie would have dozed during the picture if it hadn't 
been about a young girl who is turned out of her
employer's home when she has a baby by the handsome 
son of the manor house.  Stumbling around in a blizzard,
the poor girl and her child were nearly frozen to death
before being taken in by a kindly woodcutter.

"What a dolt," Missy said as they walked back to the
boarding house.  "She should have stood up for herself
and made that rich boy pay.  Why should the poor woodcutter
support his child?"

"Maybe she had too much pride," Katie replied.  She had
always scoffed along with Missy at the silly melodramatic
plots of the movies they saw on Sunday afternoons.  This
one was every bit as ridiculous, but she couldn't laugh
at it today.

"A girl's reputation is her most precious possession,"
Maggie Scully intoned.  "Once it's gone, she's ruined."

Later that night, Katie dreamt she was wandering the
streets of the city in a raging snowstorm, holding a 
lifeless baby.   In the morning, she woke to find her 
face wet with tears and bright sunlight streaming through 
the window.  Glancing at the clock on her dresser, 
Katie groaned as she saw that it was past eight o'clock. 
Clinic began promptly at nine.  

As soon as her feet touched the floor, nausea hit 
Katie like a bucketful of water.  She was able, this
time, to race downstairs before being sick over the
toilet.  When she was sure her stomach wouldn't 
rebel again, Katie washed up and went into
the kitchen.

"You need to keep some soda crackers by the bed,"
Shayna said from the kitchen door.  

"What are you talking about?"  

Oh dear God, Katie thought, why did all this have to 
happen in the summer where open windows and close 
quarters removed any semblance of privacy.

"Soda crackers.  Eat a couple before you even pick up
your head in the morning.  Saved me every time.  Izzy 
was the worst though.  Thought I was gonna die with 
him."

"Shayna," Katie said, closing her eyes.  "I don't 
even know for sure."

"Yeah, yer right.  No use buyin' trouble--it comes
free all the time.  Just remember about the soda
crackers."

"Can you set up for clinic?" Katie asked.   At
Shayna's affirmation, Katie flew upstairs to get
dressed.

The first patients were already waiting by the time
Katie entered the classroom they used for the weekly
clinic.  Vincent arrived, carrying his black doctor's
bag that the children of the neighborhood all believed
was where he carried the new babies.

The morning went by quickly and Katie managed to keep
her nausea in check through the cases of prickly heat
and sunburn.  She even survived Mrs. Tanner's phlegmy 
cough.

Clinic was nearly over when a young man appeared in
the doorway of the classroom.   His left hand was
cradled to his midsection and wrapped in some cloth.

"Excuse me," he said.  "I was told there was a doctor
here."

"Yes," Vincent said, motioning the young man into the
room.  "Here, sit down and we'll take care of that.
My name is Dr. Vitigliano.  What happened?"

The young man allowed Vincent to remove the cloth 
wrapping from his hand.  He winced in obvious pain
as the badly burned skin was revealed.  The stench 
of chemicals and burned flesh wafted to Katie.

"I've been working on a project," the man said.  Katie
noticed that he spoke well, his diction clear and 
precise.  

"That's a pretty bad burn," Vincent said.  "What were
you working with?"  

"Sulfuric acid," he said, hissing when Vincent began to 
clean the skin.  "I'm working on an electric starter 
for the automobile."

"Capital idea," Vincent said.  "Make that miserable
hand crank a thing of the past."  

"That's the idea."  Pale with pain, the young man
closed his eyes.  

"What's your name?" Vincent asked.

"Pendrell.  Sean Pendrell.  I let myself be distracted
for a split second and the next thing I knew, I
could smell the skin burning."

Katie struggled to keep her feet under her as 
she watched Vincent dab at skin that looked like
raw meat gone bad.  Her stomach rolled and nausea
rose in her throat.  

"Excuse me," she said, hurrying from the room.  

She barely made it to the bathroom before heaving 
violently.  Shuddering, she staggered out into the
kitchen.

She sat at the table, her head pillowed on her
arms and fought back tears.  How humiliating, she
thought, how incredibly unprofessional to abandon her
post like that.  Vincent would think her a terrible 
nurse and he'd be completely right in that belief.

But his voice was gentle when he found her and touched
her shoulder lightly.

"Katie?  Tell me what's wrong.  Are you ill?"

"Oh, Vincent," she said, her voice thick with tears.
"I'm so embarrassed and so very sorry."

"Sorry?  For what?  Being human?"  Vincent sat down
next to her, taking her hand.  "Would you let me
examine you?"

"I...I'm sure it's nothing.  Really, Vincent, I'll
be fine."

"How about Dr. Scanlon, over on Houston Street?"

"I don't know him," Katie said.

"That's the point."  Vincent gave a small smile.  "I
worked under him at Bellevue, and I can vouch for his
expertise.  Nor matter what's wrong, it's better to
know than to wonder."

Over the next few days, Katie gave Vincent's kind
advice a lot of thought.  She needed to know for certain
before she lost her mind.  

The week passed in a confused haze.  Katie found that
Shayna was quite right--soda crackers eaten before she
got out of bed did, indeed, help her nausea.  

Mail arrived for her each day--heavy cream velum envelopes 
embossed with a Fifth Avenue address and Mathew's 
distinctive scrawl.  Each day, she handed the unopened 
letters back to the postman with the word "refused" 
written across the front.

Wednesday evening, Katie excused herself from the evening's
events and lay down on her bed.  She'd nearly dozed off 
when raised voices on the stairs roused her.  The voices 
became clearer and louder as she approached the stairs.

"And where do you think you're going, Mr. Fancypants 
Richman?"

"I have to speak with Katie.  Please, Shayna.  It's 
important."

"Please keep your voice down, Mr. Mulder," Katie said 
with more composure than she felt as she descended.  
"We have classes in session."

"We need to talk," he said, more quietly.  

Katie had to admit that Fox Mulder looked as if he'd 
been living in hell.  Well, good.  That was only what 
he deserved.  So why did that still tug at her heart?

"We've said all there was to say."  

"No we haven't because you still don't believe me."

When she realized Fox wasn't leaving until he'd had
his say, she sighed and led him downstairs and out the
front door.

"All right, Mr. Mulder," she said, wrapping her arms 
around her middle.  "What was so terribly important 
that you needed to disrupt the entire settlement house?"

"I never meant to hurt you, Katie.  You have to believe 
that."

"I do believe you," Katie said.  "When I first found out
who you really were, I thought, perhaps, you were merely
amusing yourself with the lower classes.  But now, I
understand.  You believed the things you told me.  But
you were still playacting, Mr. Mulder.  And you did
hurt me--even if you didn't mean to."

"I can't lose you."

"You say you love me.  Do you respect me, Mr. Mulder?"

"Of course I do," he said, grasping her hands between his
own.  "I have the utmost respect for you."

"Well then, I'm going to ask you to respect my wishes and
leave me alone."

Withdrawing her hands, Katie turned and walked back into
the settlement house, leaving Fox Mulder alone on the
front steps.  She managed to get up to her bedroom before
the tears began. 

The next day, Katie told her mother that she could
only help with the laundry in the morning.  Maggie 
seemed worried, but kept any questions to herself.

That afternoon, Katie mustered every ounce of her 
courage and went to see Dr. Scanlon.  The examination 
was uncomfortable, but she clenched her hands into 
fists and endured.

Later, she sat across from Dr. Scanlon in his
book-lined office.  Katie wasn't sure if it was 
pity or disdain that she detected as he looked 
at her.  She straightened her spine and raised 
her chin.  She'd accept neither response from him.  

"You're definitely with child, Miss Scully," he said,
with emphasis on the "Miss."  "According to my
calculations, your confinement will occur in February."

"I've been feeling quite ill, Doctor," Katie said.  
"As well as very tired."

"The pregnancy appears healthy," he answered. "Malaise
is to be expected."

Katie had the distinct feeling that Dr. Scanlon would
have had more sympathy if she'd been "Mrs. Anybody"
instead of "Miss Scully."  

"Have you any instructions for me?" Katie asked. 

"Rest when you can.  Eat a wholesome diet.  Nothing
that common sense wouldn't dictate.  I understand you
are a nurse employed by the settlement house." 

"Yes, I am."

"I'm not sure it is suitable for you to continue in
that employment, Miss Scully.  In light of your
condition."

"I'm capable of handling my responsibilities, at least
for the present."

"Perhaps you are, but would that be suitable?" he
asked pointedly.

Katie rose and left.  She fumed the entire way back to
the settlement house.  

If Shayna hadn't been waiting for her, Katie would
have gone next door to get her.

"You ain't the first and you won't be the last,"
Shayna said.

"I knew better."

"What people know and what they do ain't always the
same.  Katie, ya gotta tell yer mama.  Yer gonna need
her."

"Not yet, Shayna.  Not until I figure out what to do."

"Listen to me good.  There's people around, some of
'em doctors even, who can fix this  like it never
happened.  I seen girls get hurt that way, and one I
heard about even died, so I don't think you should do
it.  But bubbela, if yer gonna do it, it's better it
should be right away."

Katie shook her head.

"No.  Not that."

Shayna heaved a sigh of relief.

"OK.  I just wanted you should know.  Then another
thing ya wanna think about is gettin' married.  And
again, better it should be sooner instead of later."

"Not that either," Katie said staunchly.

"You make that millionaire billionaire pay what he
owes and you'll find plenty of men who would have ya,"
Shayna said.

Katie stood up, pushing her chair away from the table.
Shayna was trying to be practical and helpful, but
her advice was so coarse and ugly that Katie couldn't
bear to listen any more.

"I'm going to take a walk," she said.

Over the days ahead, Katie discovered in herself an
almost a magical ability to ignore her own troubles
for hours at a time.  She was as efficient as ever at
running the settlement house and watching over her
patients.  She told herself it was a blessing.

Friday evening in the quiet after sunset, Vincent
Vitigliano surprised her with a visit.

"It's good to see you," Katie said brightly, but
Vincent's face was dark with concern.

"I fear I've done you a terrible wrong by recommending
Dr. Scanlon to you," he said.

"He's not a pleasant man," Katie agreed.

"I knew him as a gifted diagnostician.  I didn't
suspect that he'd be unethical."

"Unethical?"

"Katie, he told me."

"Oh.  Well, since you referred me... a fellow
physician...."  It wasn't unethical for a doctor to
report back to a colleague on a mutual patient.  Katie
was more concerned with the fact that Vincent knew
than with the manner in which he'd been informed.

"There was nothing professional about it.  He's not a
nice man," Vincent said firmly.

"I don't blame you, Vincent," she said.

Minutes passed.  Vincent sat at the kitchen table,
making no move to leave.

"I'll put on some coffee," Katie decided.  She busied
herself with the percolator as Vincent continued to
brood.

"I assure you, I don't hold you responsible for Dr.
Scanlon's actions," she said, but still Vincent was
silent.

At last, with a cup of coffee in his hand, he began to
speak.

"I'm 34," he said.

"I thought you were younger."

"Most people do.  I started working in this
neighborhood while I was still in training, to gain
experience.  And I stay because it's important to me,"
he said.

"That's fortunate for all of us."

"It's important to me, and I know it's important to
you.  You see, Katie, we care about the same things,
and we work together so easily.  I'm very fond of you,
and I'm bold enough to think that you care about me as
well."

"Vincent, I do care about you--"

"Working together, with mutual respect and affection. 
I think in time you could grow to love me."

"I wouldn't use you that way," she said, her voice 
hoarse with emotion.  "I couldn't."  

"I don't want you to answer yet.  Take the time to
think about what I said.  Until then, my offer
remains."

Katie couldn't say a word.  She didn't want to hurt
him but she could never accept his proposal.  He
replaced his cup on the saucer, and he left.

She did think about his offer.  Vincent was kind,
intelligent and handsome.  And it wasn't as if she
would be deceiving him.  There was the baby to
consider as well.  She was sure that Vincent would
make a fine father.  She knew what Shayna would say,
and probably Missy too.

She knew it would be wrong, at least she thought she
knew.  But she had been so sure that sleeping with Fox
Mulder was right.  Maybe it was time to admit that she
didn't know as much as she thought she knew.

On Sunday Maggie was strangely quiet, but more than
once Katie felt her mother's sad eyes upon her.   

Mr. Pendrell returned to the clinic on Monday, his
hand much improved after a week of healing.  He
inquired politely if Katie was feeling better.  

Katie and Vincent were focused and professional
throughout the day, and neither one mentioned her
condition or his proposal.  Katie didn't invite him
for coffee afterwards, and he didn't linger.  

Again and again Shayna asked her what she was going to
do, but Katie had no answer.

Late on Wednesday Katie found herself sewing
frantically with Shayna and Mrs. Tibby.

"Explain it again.  Julius Caesar is going to play
Marc Antony?" Shayna asked.

"Yes, because he knows all the lines," Mrs. Tibby
said.

"So why can't he wear his same toga, from when he was
Caesar?"

"Because Portia's going to be Caesar," Mrs. Tibby said
patiently.

"And Caesar's toga has a big red spot in front, when
you move the folds aside," Katie said.

"And I'm afraid Portia's going to break her neck if we
don't get Caesar's toga hemmed.  And Caesar is going
to bust out of Marc Antony's costume, if we don't
finish taking it out," Mrs. Tibby said.

"Oy, show business.  And I thought it was all glamour."
Shayna sighed dramatically.

The women were startled by a forceful knock at the
door.  Before Katie had reached the foyer, Mr. Blevins
had let himself in.

"Good evening, Mr. Blevins," Katie said politely,
although such a late call by one of the trustees was
unprecedented.

"Good evening, Miss Scully.  Unfortunately my purpose
here is not pleasant."

"Is something wrong?" Katie asked.

"Very much so, as I know you're aware.  Indeed, I'm as
disappointed by your dishonesty as I am by your moral
failing," he said.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Blevins.  I answer to my
conscience, as I'm sure you do yourself," Katie said.

"Your conscience, it appears, is sadly wanting, as Dr.
Scanlon has informed me.  Your position here is
terminated immediately.  You may have until tomorrow
morning to remove your effects."

****************************************


Forgive Us Our Trespasses - Fox Mulder's story.  Part 10

He wasn't drunk.  Not yet, at least.  Fox Mulder 
took another sip of scotch whiskey and waited for
the familiar fire as it slid all the way down to
his belly.  No, he wasn't drunk, but if the last
few days had taught him anything, it was that the
anesthetic qualities of hard liquor were vastly
overrated.
 
His heart felt as if it had been pierced through.
Even when he closed his eyes, the image of Katie's
face was before him, pain pouring off her like 
rainwater.  He brought the heavy cut glass tumbler
to his mouth and swallowed another mouthful.  

Placing his glass on the mahogany table, he reached
into his pocket and withdrew an envelope.  The 
paper felt dry and brittle in his fingers.  

"Refused," he read, softly, as if saying it aloud
would help him believe it.  "Refused."

Fox could still smell the furniture wax the maid had
used when she'd dusted and polished the parlor that
morning.  Of course, now the smell was overlaid
with the smoke from Fox's cigar.  The room was quiet
and cool, suiting his dark mood.

"Fox, dear, how many times have I asked you and your
father not to smoke cigars in the parlor?  The stench
hangs in the air for days." 

His mother stood in the doorway, exasperation plain on 
her face.  He'd expected something more than irritation
from his mother this afternoon.

"I'm sorry, Mother," he said, stubbing the cigar out 
slowly.  He hadn't been enjoying it anyway.  "How was 
the Orchid Society Luncheon?"

"It was just lovely.  Mrs. Schuyler certainly outdid 
herself with the menu and floral arrangements.  I think
she bought up every orchid east of the Mississippi.  
And, of course Diana was simply radiant, as always."

"Radiant, was she?  Didn't she have some important news
to announce?  Something shocking?"

"No, darling.  Why on earth would you ask that?  Fox,
is something wrong?  You've been looking perfectly 
dreadful, dear.  Why aren't you at work?  Are you
ill?"

"She didn't say anything about calling off the wedding?"

"Of course not, dear," his mother said, sitting next to
him on the settee.  She took his hand, shocking him a
bit with the uncharacteristic gesture.  "Fox, I know 
you're a little overwhelmed by the thought of marriage,
but remember, Diana will be right by your side."

"There will be no marriage," he choked out.

"Oh darling, every bridegroom goes through some
uncertainty.  It's perfectly natural."

"No, Mother.  There will be no marriage.  I'm not 
marrying Diana Fowley and she knows it.  She promised 
me...she gave me her word that she would tell everyone 
at the luncheon." 

"You're talking nonsense, Fox.  Of course there's going
to be a wedding.  Diana's planning an engagement party 
for next month."

He was on his feet in a moment, pacing from the fireplace 
to the window and back.  Diana had given her word.  He'd 
gone to her the day after Katie had confronted him with his 
deception.  Fox had been a fool living in a dream, just as
Katie had said.  While he'd played out his fantasy with the
woman he loved, real life and Diana Fowley had seemed like
a distant mirage.   

The price he'd paid in allowing Diana to bring the engagement 
to an end on her own terms had been far too high.  He'd lost 
the only woman he'd ever loved and he had no desire to 
continue the fabrication, even if Diana and the Schuylers
made his family suffer.  

Skinner had been right.  Diana was never going to break
the engagement on her own terms.  She would try and wear
him down until she could seduce him to the altar.  Damn it,
he wasn't going to participate a day longer.

"No matter," he bit out.  "I'll take matters into my own
hands, tonight."

"Dear?" his mother asked, her voice tremulous.  She 
tolerated his eccentricities and smiled at what she 
considered his youthful enthusiasm.  His desperation
frightened her.  "Are you going to work?"

"I don't think that I will," Fox answered, downing the
last of his scotch.  He stood with eyes closed and allowed
the fire to penetrate his heart.  "I'm going out for 
a while."

"You'll be back in time for Mrs. Phelps' dinner party, 
won't you, dear?"  

"Never fear, Mother.  I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Giving instructions to Edgar to bring his car around, Fox
waited in the bright sunlight for the Pierce Arrow to 
pull in front of the house.  The car had been a slight act
of rebellion.  His father had been nearly apoplectic when
he found that Fox had purchased the car that President
Taft had made popular by purchasing two of them earlier 
in the year.  

Fox pulled away from the curb.  He'd bought the car with 
the intention of thrilling Katie.  He'd pictured them side 
by side, touring along country roads.  Now, he drove the 
vehicle through the neighborhoods where he hoped to catch 
a glimpse of her.  

In the two weeks since Katie had discovered his true identity,
he'd spent more than a few nights parked in front of the 
bordello that stood a stone's throw from the settlement house.   
The bawdy house was a source of much embarrassment to Katie, 
but Fox found it ideal camouflage for the Pierce Arrow.  
Anyone spotting him sitting in his car would assume he was 
a chauffeur. 

Hidden in the darkness, he'd watched the comings and goings 
of the people who attended the classes and programs.  He 
knew it was wrong.  Katie would see it as the worst kind of 
violation, second only to deceiving her with his identity.  
But he couldn't help himself.  The need to be near her in 
any capacity was too strong to resist.

He would hold his breath waiting for a glimpse of Katie.  
Last week, he'd nearly gone mad when he spotted her 
leaving the settlement house with a tall, dark-haired man.

The next days had taken a terrible toll on Fox.  He'd been
alternately eaten up with jealousy, angry with Katie for
moving on with such ease, angry with Diana for holding
onto him with such tenacity, and angry with himself for 
botching everything and losing Katie.  

He'd drunk himself into a stupor each night.  Each morning,
he'd been unable to rise from his bed.  Luckily, his 
father had assumed he spent his evenings with Diana and 
had admonished him that he'd wear himself out before the 
wedding.  And each evening he returned to prowl the streets 
around Katie's neighborhood.

After several evenings passed with no sign of the dark man,
Fox gathered his courage and returned to plead with Katie
again.  He'd braved Shayna's sharp tongue, grateful that 
she didn't have her broom at the ready.  His heart had 
soared at the sound of Katie's voice.  

As she drew him out on the steps of the settlement house,
Fox realized he only had moments to speak to her before
she shut him, quite literally, out of her presence.  How
could he fight when she asked him to respect her wishes 
and leave her alone?  His heart broke when she turned and 
walked away, closing the door after her.  

The pain of that moment tore into him as surely as a 
knife to the heart.  In the few moments of their exchange, 
Fox had been awash in memories.   He'd relived every 
touch, every caress.  The way her alabaster skin had 
glowed in the moonlight.  The way she felt in his arms.  
The way it had felt to make love to her, the sound of 
her moaning in his ear.

He'd had no idea it could be that way.  He was by no means 
inexperienced, but he'd never been in love with a woman 
before.  Since his late teen years, he'd had relations with 
a long line of actresses and dancers that ended with Sheila 
Fontaine.  He'd regarded the sexual act with Sheila and the 
rest as an exciting and recreational outlet.  Nothing prepared 
him for making love with someone who adored him and whom he 
adored.  He'd been most profoundly shocked by the power of it.

If he dwelled on his loss any longer, he'd surely go mad.  
With a wrench of the wheel, he steered in the direction 
of Canal Street.  He would stop by the hardware shop and
ask Langly to enlarge some of the better portraits of
Katie.  Or maybe instead he would order that all the
film be destroyed, along with every print.  Fox
couldn't decide which option would be more painful.

He entered the store to find the more circumspect of
the two proprietors behind the counter. 

"Good afternoon, Mulder," Byers greeted him.  There
was always a marked hesitation when Byers addressed
him, a noticeable pause as he forced himself to
dispense with the honorific "mister."  

"Afternoon," Fox said.  " Is Langly here?"

Byers shook his head.

"Perhaps I can be of service?" he asked.

Fox rocked on his heels, eyeing the rows and rows of
shelves.  

"Do you like hardware?" he asked idly, thinking of all
the hours he spent tracking investments and currencies, 
and how little time it left for the things that mattered 
to him.

"Do I like hardware?"  Byers looked at Fox uncertainly.  
"Yes sir, I like it very much."

Fox gave a dry laugh.  Even if Byers had understood
the question, he would force himself to offer an
ingratiating reply.

"Is there something you need?" Byers asked.  He was
clearly uncomfortable, but Fox didn't care.  He had no
place to go until tonight.

"I don't know that Langly will be back today," Byers
continued.  "He's working in the lab."

"He has a lab?"  Fox was intrigued.  "I suppose he
fancies himself another Thomas Edison."

"We have a lab, yes," Byers answered stiffly.  "We
received a patent for our burglar alarm."

"I didn't know," Fox said.

"And our next invention will change the world." 
Byers' usual diffidence disappeared for the moment.

"Really?" Fox asked.

Byers dropped his eyes.

"Perhaps that's an exaggeration.  But it will be
popular."

"Don't keep me in suspense," Fox prompted.

"We're still working on it," Byers said, turning away.

"Please tell me.  Perhaps I could invest."

"Are you serious?"  

Fox saw he had the man's complete attention.

"Why not?  If it's something worthwhile," he said.

"We're so close.  But it's difficult when you can't
afford to buy supplies."

"Then some additional capital would be helpful?"  

Fox assumed the mask of bland goodwill that he brought
to poker games and negotiations.  Byers looked eager
but cautious.

"It's an electric starter, for the automobile," he
blurted.

"Ah."  Usually it was Edgar or one of the footmen who
cranked Fox's vehicle to life, but he'd performed the
undignified task himself more often than he liked.

"A fine idea, wouldn't you say?" Byers asked, his eyes
shining.

"A capital idea," Fox agreed.  "But how would it
work?"

"Quite simple, really.  A small electric motor to
replace the crank."

Byers launched into the technical aspects, and Fox
found himself weighing the man more than the plan.

"I don't know exactly when we'd be able to pay you
back," Byers said, after he completed his explanation.

"If your scheme doesn't work, you'll never pay me
back," Fox said.

"But if it does, we could double your investment."

"I could assume the total financial liability.  And
offer a small salary to the designers."  Fox dangled
the bait.

"And in return?" Byers asked.

"An equal share in the invention--if you happen to
succeed."

"An equal share?  But we're doing all the work."

Fox shrugged and waited.

"I'd have to talk to the others," Byers said.

"Others?  Not just you and Langly?" Fox asked.

"We're machining most of the parts, but there's
another fellow who knows about power cells and 
wiring.  And a fourth man who dreamed up the idea."

"Four of you?  That only leaves twenty percent for
me," Fox complained.

"If my partners decide to accept your terms."

"Don't take too long," 

"What if your father doesn't agree?" Byers asked.

"My father won't be involved.  As a mark of my
confidence, I'll risk my personal assets."

The disbursement would be small enough that Fox could
cover it on his own.  He lacked the interest or
enthusiasm to present the idea to his father or DT.

"I'll still need to talk to Ringo and the others."

"As I said, don't take too long."

It was the first time in weeks that Fox had felt a
flicker of interest in anything financial.  He felt
buoyed for a moment, as he worked the crank on the
Pierce Arrow.  Maybe he'd take some pictures at the 
piers, or in one of the parks.  But as he got behind 
the wheel, his malaise returned.  Anyway, it was nearly 
time to get ready for Mrs. Phelps' soiree.

He returned home, driving the Pierce Arrow back to the
part of the carriage house that had been given over to
the automobiles.  A footman ran out to meet him and 
take the car once Fox hopped out.

He felt grimy from driving around the city.  In his
despondence, personal grooming had fallen by the wayside
as he lost interest in almost every daily task.  Mourning
Katie took all of his energy.  Tonight, he'd have to 
summon whatever strength he had to make himself
presentable.  He had a job to do and that gave him 
purpose.

He arrived at his room, and stood with his hand on 
the doorknob.   Head bowed, he knew there was something
he had to do first and walking a few feet down the 
hall, he knocked on Skinner's door.
 
"Come in," Skinner's voice called through the door.

Mulder stood in the doorway for a moment, longing
for the days when he didn't feel awkward in this
man's presence.  Skinner sat in an armchair by
the window, the late afternoon sunlight blazing
through to shine on his bald pate.

"You look like something that climbed out of a 
sewer grate," Skinner said, looking up from his
book.  "Where in Hades have you been?"

"Hades," Fox answered as he flopped down on the
sofa, his long legs sprawled out before him.

"Your father's patience is wearing thin, Mulder.  
He's been cursing a blue streak about your missing 
work."

"He's going to be far angrier after tonight," Fox
said, passing a weary hand over his face.  "You
were right, you know."

"I was right?  I should ask for that in writing.
Pray tell what was I right about."

Fox sat forward, his hands clasped between his 
knees.  His relationship with Skinner had been
badly damaged by their conflict over Katie.  Fox 
was torn between not trusting the man and desperately
needing an ally now that his world had shattered.

"You said that Diana Fowley wouldn't let me go.
You were right.  I was perfectly clear the last time
I spoke with her.  I said I'd been patient enough
and that she had to tell everyone that the marriage 
was off.  She's not only failed to do so, the damn
woman is planning an engagement party."

"I'm afraid I'm not surprised.  What are you going
to do?"

"I won't allow this fraud to continue.  I'll do what
needs to be done tonight."

"Good," Skinner said, nodding.  "It's best to do it
with one stroke."

"If only it would set things right again."  Weary
beyond words, Fox rubbed his eyes with the heels of
his hands.  "It's all gone to hell.  You were right 
about that, too."

Skinner closed the book, setting it on the table
at his elbow.  He slowly removed his spectacles,
placing them atop the book.

"I wish I'd been wrong.  It gives me no pleasure
to see you destroy yourself.  You're drinking far
too much, Mulder, and not eating nearly enough.  I
don't think you've been to bed before the small 
hours once in the last two weeks.  Your parents 
may not have noticed, but I have."

"Nothing matters anymore," Mulder muttered.  

"I take it things had ended badly with Katie."

"Two weeks ago, she found out who I really am."  I
have no idea how or why, but she was in Delmonico's
one night when Diana and I arrived for dinner."

A tremendous weight lifted from Fox's chest.  No
matter the outcome, Fox felt relief at just telling
someone what had happened.

"She must have been devastated," Skinner said.  

"She said she never wanted to see me again.  
I...Skinner, I don't know what I'll do without her
in my life.  Katie is like the air I breath, the
water I drink--she's everything to me."

Silence stretched between the two men as Skinner
looked at his hands, obviously deep in thought.

"I'll go to see her," Skinner said, finally.  "Perhaps
she'll listen to me."

The ember of hope that Fox had thought completely
extinguished, flickered ever so slightly.  

"Thank you.  Thank you, Skinner," he said rising to
shake the man's hand.  "I'd better get ready for
the party tonight."

"God, Mulder, when was the last time you saw your
barber?" Skinner asked, as he stood up.  "You look
like a caveman."

Fox reached up to touch his overlong hair.  His hair
was sadly in need of a trim, grazing his collar in
the back and flopping into his eyes.  

"You're just jealous," he teased, gesturing at Skinner's
bald head.  It felt good to banter again.  He hadn't 
realized how much he missed it.  

Fox bathed and wrestled into a formal suit.  Unlike
recent weeks, when Skinner came in to help him with 
the cuffs, he admonished Fox to stop moving, joking 
that he'd have to put him in a headlock if he fidgeted
any more.

His father greeted him with barely contained anger.
It was surely only the prospect of the advantageous 
marriage between Fox and Diana that kept William 
Mulder from blasting his fury over his son's lack of
attention at work.  That rage would surely escape 
its confines once Fox did what he had to do.  

They took the horse-drawn carriage though 
the family had purchased a Rolls Royce Silver Ghost
months ago.  Teena Mulder still preferred the more 
roomy interior cab of the carriage so her gown 
didn't become crushed.

His mother seemed pensive as they traveled to 
the Phelps home.  Seated across from Fox, her gaze 
returned to his face over and over.  Clearly, she 
remembered their conversation earlier in the day 
and was worried.

They arrived and Fox surveyed the room in search
of Diana.  He found her laughing at something a
tall man was saying.  As Fox drew closer, he realized
it was the same craggy-faced man she'd been talking
to at Delmonico's the first night he met her for
dinner.   As he had that night, the man held a 
cigarette between his long fingers.  Fox wondered
how addicted the man must have been not to wait 
until after dinner when the gentlemen retired to
smoke cigars and drink brandy.

Diana and her friend didn't see Fox as he approached, 
allowing him to overhear their discussion.

"You'll tame him soon enough, my dear.  But try not to 
break his spirit." 

"I assure you, I prefer my lovers spirited," Diana
said before she noticed Fox at her side.

"Good evening," he said to the smoking man.  "I hope 
you don't mind my stealing Mrs. Fowley away from you."

"It would only be fair," the man replied, letting a 
long plume of smoke escape his lips.  "Such a
lovely woman should not languish in the company of an
old man.  Reluctantly, I must relinquish her."

Fox waited until the man was out of earshot before he
leaned in to Diana and hissed, "I told you a week ago
Saturday that this charade had to end, Diana.  It has
gone on far too long and I won't be a party to it a 
day longer."

"Fox, dear, you must be patient with me," Diana cooed,
slipping her hand around the curve of his elbow.  

"I've been patient.  More than any man could be expected 
to be.  You had the perfect opportunity at the Orchid 
Society Luncheon and you failed to clear up this 
disaster."

"The right moment simply didn't present itself, Fox.  
We have families to consider.  Your mother, for instance, 
is so very happy with the idea.  I just couldn't bear 
to tell her--she would have been crushed."

"You leave me no choice, Diana," Fox said as he strode 
off.

Fox snagged a glass of champagne from a passing tray and
sipped it as he moved over by the terrace doors.  The
evening breeze offered a respite from the warmth of the 
drawing room.  From his vantage point, he watched Diana,
who was deep in conversation with the craggy man.  She
looked tense as she glanced in Fox's direction through
a mist of cigarette smoke.  

He spotted Dewitt Traut chatting with Mrs. Schuyler
and caught the man's eye.  DT excused himself and 
made his way over to Fox.

"It's good to see you after so long.  Seems as if you've 
forgotten the way to the office, Fox.  Maybe we need to 
draw you a map."

"I'm sorry, Uncle Dewitt.  I've...had some issues to
attend to."

"Son, we realize you're young, so we've given you plenty 
of rope.  Just see that you don't hang yourself with it."  
DT may have been smiling, but Fox could tell he, too, 
had run out of patience.

Fox looked away, embarrassed that he'd upset his mentor.  
His eyes lingered on Diana and the tall man. 

"Who is that man, Uncle DeWitt?"

Stony silence.

"Uncle?  Who is that man with Diana?"

"I don't see him."

Fox sighed and wondered if pressing the issue would
accomplish anything more than further irritation of
Traut.

The butler called them in to dinner and Fox found himself
sitting beside Diana.  She attempted to make small talk,
but Fox chose to keep his swirling thoughts to himself.

His gut was twisted into knots with the anticipation and
he could barely do justice to either the turtle soup or 
filet of sea bass that followed.  He felt like the trapeze
artist he'd seen once when he was twelve--waiting, waiting
waiting for the moment when the trapeze was in the right
position and he could reach out and grasp it.

When George Schuyler stood to toast his niece and her 
fiance, Fox knew the trapeze was firm in his hand.

"Please everyone, let's all raise a glass to Diana and 
Fox!" George said and everyone happily complied.  Diana 
was magnificent, turning to offer Fox a radiant smile.  
The smile didn't extend to her eyes, and he thought he 
detected a little panic there.

"Mrs. Fowley and I thank you for your kind wishes," Fox
said as he stood.  "But we must announce that there is no 
engagement."  

"Fox, please," Diana whispered at his elbow.  He turned to 
pin her with a long look.  

"Sadly, this *engagement* was no more than a delusion on 
the part of Mrs. Fowley.  I apologize to you all for my 
part in this unfortunate circumstance.  I allowed the
deception to continue for far too long in my hopes that
Mrs. Fowley would correct the situation.  But, as she
has not, I must reiterate--there is no engagement.  
There will be no marriage between Mrs. Fowley and myself." 

Several of the ladies gasped and Fox was sure his mother
was one of them.   He couldn't bear to look, picturing 
instead the look of shock and dismay he was sure marked
her face.  At his side, Diana's chair nearly toppled 
as she ran from the room.  Gravely, the man with the
cigarettes rose, nodded to Mrs. Phelps and followed
Diana from the room.  A low murmur traveled around the 
table.

"I'm so sorry to have disrupted your dinner with 
unpleasantness.  If you'll excuse me," he said to 
the hostess.  "I have an urgent matter to attend
to."

Mrs. Phelps nodded numbly.  Teena Mulder managed
a weak "Fox?"  He assured his parents that he would
find his own way home and not to cut their evening 
short on his account.  Bill Mulder's face was dark
red, his eyes burning with fury as Fox passed him.

As he passed through the drawing room and foyer he 
cautiously kept a eye out for Diana and her 
smoky companion.  Fortunately, there was no evidence 
that they'd lingered at the Phelps house and Fox
was able to make his escape without incident.

He stood on the steps of the Phelps house, taking a 
long, deep breath of warm evening air.  It smelled
wonderful to him, horse manure, automobile exhaust
and all.  It was the scent of freedom from Diana
Fowley. 

He'd been worse than foolish in ever thinking he could
woo Katie Scully while carrying on a public liaison 
with another woman.  He'd been mad to think he could
win Katie's heart without utterly giving her his own.

His headstrong, wayward little sister had chosen love
and freedom over wealth and family.  He understood at
last that her flight was not a fall from grace, but an
escape.

Nothing mattered now but regaining Katie's love and
earning her trust.  He arrived home filled with
determination, but lacking a definite plan.

Skinner was waiting outside.

"Did you talk to Katie?" Fox asked anxiously.

"She wasn't in," Skinner said.  

"Was she really out, or did she refuse to see you?"
Fox asked.

"Did you break the engagement?" Skinner asked.

"Yes--but what about Katie?"

"Let's find someplace to talk.  I want a full
accounting of your emancipation."  

They walked to the same local bar where a few short
weeks ago Skinner had ordered him to break off with
Katie, sealing the message with his fists.  Tonight
Fox and his old tutor were allies instead of
adversaries.

Fox recounted the events at the dinner party, to
Skinner's admiration.

"I wish I could have seen it," he said.

"She left me no choice," Fox said.

"I preserved her letter."

"Thank you."  Diana had spelled out her request for a
false public courtship in a letter.  Fox's gentlemanly
instinct had been to destroy it, but Skinner had been
shrewd enough to save it.

"Mr. Schwab offered you a position," Skinner said.

"That was two years ago, and said in jest."  

"It was no joke, Mulder.  Your talents are known and
appreciated far outside your father's firm."

"If Father discharges me, other firms will shun me to
avoid offending him.  Or else they'll mistrust me as
his son," Fox said.

"He won't discharge you, he'll exile you to the London
office."

"And I will resign.  I'm not without means, Skinner."

"Really?"  Skinner gave a dry cough.

"What about Katie?"

Skinner picked up his glass, turning it in his hands. 
Fox knew he was stalling for time, but kept his
patience.

"I went to the settlement house," Skinner said slowly.
 
Fox waited, knowing that trying to hurry Skinner along
would only make him take longer.

"Katie's gone.  She doesn't work there anymore. 
Mulder, Katie was accused of 'immoral conduct.'  She
was fired and evicted."

******************************

Katie had lost her job and her home.  Fox's breath
caught in his throat as he contemplated the enormity
of her plight.

"They fired her and put her out on the street?" he
asked Skinner.

"She had friends, family," Skinner tried to reassure
him.

"I ruined her.  Her work, her home, her virtue.  I
took them all."

Skinner's silence was his assent.

"I have to find her."  Fox was halfway to his feet
when Skinner's hand caught his arm.

"Sit down, Mulder.  You'll accomplish nothing by
running off into the night."

"I've got to find her!"

"How do you hope to do that?" Skinner asked.

"Well... She has a friend I can question.  And I know
where her mother lives.  I'll pressure the trustees of
the settlement house--or you can take care of that.  
I know one of her brothers, and I think she has a
sister, too.  She's Catholic--I'll try the churches."

"Those are good plans, Mulder.  We'll get started in
the morning,"  Skinner said firmly.  His bossiness
held a degree of familiarity and comfort, but the time
had long gone when Fox was willing to be told when to
go to bed.

"Skinner, she could be out there with nowhere to go."

"I don't believe that.  I'm sure she knows people who
would take her in."

Skinner's confidence was reassuring, and Fox reminded
himself how resourceful Katie was, how inventive and
clever, and how much everyone around her came to love
her.

"You think she's safe?" Fox asked.

"I'm sure of it."  Comforted by that thought, Fox 
allowed Skinner to lead him out of the bar.  
"Come on.  You'll feel better after a good
night's sleep."

Once he was home and in his room, he stripped off his 
formal clothes and thought about going to bed.  Fox 
was sure there was no way he'd sleep tonight with 
thoughts of Katie swirling through his head.  He'd 
go mad if he stayed in his room and brooded.

Fox quickly dressed in casual clothes.  Closing his
door gently behind him, he tiptoed down the hall, not
wanting to alert Skinner.  

The house was quiet as he descended the back stairs.  His
parents were still at the party, undoubtedly under the
most uncomfortable circumstances.  It might be cowardly,
but Fox had every intention of postponing the inevitable
row with his father.  

He'd hoped the carriage house would be deserted, but a
groom sat just inside the door, dozing in his chair.  

"Sir?" the young man asked, rousing from his nap.  
"Is everyone home?   I...I must've dropped off.  
Sorry, sir.  Mr. Edgar is going to have my head."

"Only if he finds out," Fox said.  "Which he won't from
me.  My parents are still at the Phelps.  Help 
me get my car started."

"Right away, sir," the groom said, as he trotted over to
the car.  He worked the hand crank, starting the car and
pulling it forward for Fox.

"You haven't seen me," he told the groom as he slid 
behind the wheel.

"Haven't seen hide nor hair of ya, sir."
  
Though he knew it was pointless, Fox drove to the settlement
house and gazed at the upper floor.  The house was quiet 
at this late hour, the evening's activities long finished.  
A light burned in one room on the third floor but Fox knew 
it wasn't Katie's.  Memories of the amazing things that 
happened in that room flooded his mind until he was forced 
to drive away before he lost his mind.

He knew driving through the streets of the east side was
pointless as well.  Scanning doorways, peering into alleys--
he wasn't sure what he hoped to find.  Surely, he wasn't
going to come across a ragged Katie huddled on a doorstep
and even if he did, she wasn't going to look on him as
a hero, saving her from a life of degradation.

She would see him, instead, as the cause of the destruction
of her life.  

Dispirited, he drove home and fell into bed where he 
tossed and turned until falling into a restless sleep.

He woke the next morning, exhausted but intent on his
mission.  Fortunately, Mulder & Traut was closed on Saturday
during July and August, leaving him free to begin his
search.

"Master Fox, yer skin and bones.  Let me fix you somethin'
that'll stick to yer ribs," Cook said as he grabbed an apple 
from the kitchen table.

"Next time," he said, tossing her a grin as he flew out the
door.  "I'm in a bit of a hurry."

He ate the apple in the car as he drove over to the
Berkowitz home.  He had decided to go to her house and 
not to speak to her at the settlement house.  If she'd
speak to him at all, she was more likely to talk freely
at home.  

"Izzy Berkowitz, you better be goin' to the
synagogue," Shayna called out to the bulky looking 
adolescent who emerged from the back door.

"I'm goin, Ma, I'm goin'."

"No stickball!  I'll hear about it!"

Izzy was still grumbling when he shouldered past Fox as
he approached the house.  

"What are you doin' here?" Shayna asked, her eyes narrowed
at the sight of Fox.  "Haven't ya caused enough trouble?"

"Shayna, please.  Can I come in?"

"Sure, why not.  You should see how the other half lives."

Fox entered a hot and stuffy kitchen where a baby sat on
the floor, banging on a pot with a wooden spoon.  

"Chaimie, enough already with the banging." Shayna grunted as
she lifted the baby.  Turning to Fox, she asked, "So what do 
ya want as if I didn't know?" 

"How is Katie?" he asked.  

"She's all right, no thanks to you."

"I need to speak to her, Shayna.  Do you know where she is?"

"Haven't you done enough to that poor girl?  Got her fired
and kicked out.  Can't ya leave her alone?"

"But that's just why I need to talk to her.  It's because
of me she's lost her job.  Let me help her--it's the
least I can do."

"Yer right.  Ya should help her, but she don't listen to
me and she don't wanna see you."

It was clear Fox wasn't going to get any information out 
of Shayna.  At least not right now, but he sensed a tiny
bit of sympathy in her.  

"Would you give her this?" Fox said, handing Shayna a 
business card.  "Please tell Katie to get in touch with 
my lawyer.  Mr. Leamus will see that she gets anything 
she needs."

Shayna snorted.

"But first she gotta sign her name that she never met
you and nothin' ain't yer fault."

"No!  I'll instruct him to release funds to her, or
argue her cause to the board of trustees.  Whatever
she wants," Fox said.

Shayna shifted the baby against her hip and placed the
business card in a cigar box on a shelf.

"She'll grow wheels and turn into a streetcar before 
she asks you for help," she predicted.   

Fox thanked her anyway. 

While the visit to Shayna gave him hope that
somewhere, Katie had shelter, the visit to her
mother's house was more alarming.  After a few minutes
of sparring with Maggie's sharp tongue, Fox realized
that Maggie knew nothing of Katie's reversal.

"Fox Mulder?  Because yer tryin' to fox me to think
yer kin to the famous William Mulder," Maggie said.

"I need to find your daughter, Katie."

"If ya had genuine cause to see her ya'd know where 
to find her."

"Will you tell her I want to see her?"

"Oh, sure I will.  I'll tell her Fox Mulder was
inquirin', and also Flim-flam Rockefeller."

At Penazek's grocery, little Anna related the sad
story of beautiful Katie, who was led astray by a rich
man with a golden tongue but a heart of ash.  Her
father signaled her to silence as he weighed out Fox's
sunflower seeds.

The newspaperman Frohike came into the store as Fox
was leaving.

"Any pictures for me?" he asked.

Fox shook his head.

"Stick with it, mac, you're good.  Hey, I can front
you some dough, if that's your problem."

"I don't need it."

"No?  Then get a haircut."

Late in the afternoon, Fox took the advice.  A
garrulous barber talked politics while he snipped. 

"The Chief's in for a fall, that's what I say."

"Pardon me?" Fox asked in surprise.  At Mulder &
Traut, his father was commonly known as "the Chief."

"Mr. Charles Murphy--the Chief.  You gotta take care
of your people.  Ya turn on 'em, and it's all over, 
no matter who you are."

Fox recognized the name.  Murphy was the boss of
Tammany Hall, the political machine behind New York
politics.  Because of Murphy's custom of conducting
his business from an upstairs room at Delmonico's
restaurant, Fox had even crossed paths with the man
several times.

"He calls 'em socialists, but all they want is what's
owed 'em," the barber continued.  

"The picketers?"   Fox had paid little attention to
the world beyond his own misery, but he was aware that
many of the city's sweatshops had been shut down by
strikers.

"He sends the cops to arrest 'em, and his bullies to
beat 'em up."

"Even the girls?" Fox asked.  Most of the sewing
machine operators were female, as well as most of the
picketers.

"Makes no difference  The cops say they're a menace to
the community, and the judges agree."
 
Even after sunset, Fox wandered the streets.  He
spotted Izzy Berkowitz, when an angry giant in a
bowler hat shoved him out the door of a pool hall, 
but no sight of Katie.

Fox believed now that she had at least a place to
stay.  He'd set Skinner to the task of having her
reinstated at the settlement house.  It might take a
few days, but he was sure the Mulder name and fortune
would prevail.  If only she would let him give her
some money.

He might have to accept that she would never see him
or speak to him again.  Fox could not live with being
the cause of her destruction.

Back home, Skinner related his attempts to reverse
Katie's dismissal, hampered because it was a summer
weekend and key trustees were unavailable.  For the
rest of the evening Skinner tried in vain to distract
him with chess and conversation.

Despite all of Fox's intentions to get up early and
go to Katie's church, he overslept on Sunday morning. 
Another restless night left him groggy and sluggish.  
He scrambled into his clothes and raced off to Mass.

Katie had talked about going to Mass but Fox always 
had the impression that she attended to please Maggie 
Scully.  While he didn't know which parish, he figured 
it would be somewhere near the boarding house and not 
in the settlement house neighborhood.

After he'd left Mrs. Scully's on Saturday, Fox had driven 
up and down the streets around the boarding house until 
he'd come to a Catholic church.  St. Brigid's rose
out of the working class neighborhood like a stone and
stained glass mountain.  He was sure this was the
right place.

It was nearly 8:45 by the time Fox parked the Pierce
Arrow and dashed up the steps of St. Brigid's.  Mass was
already well underway, the people seated and the priest 
on the altar.  He stood at the back of the church, scanning 
the congregation for a glimpse of auburn hair.  Unfortunately, 
he didn't spot Katie in the rows of pews.

He tried to follow the Mass, but his Latin was rusty
and the words all blended together in his mind.  He
was attracting attention from his post at the back of
the church as congregants turned to see who had come in
late.  It wouldn't do for Katie to spot him standing
at the back--she'd surely bolt.  His stance at the back
of the church left him too exposed, so Fox took a seat 
in the last pew.

One Mass ended and another began and Fox found his 
backside numb, but no sign of Katie.  By the time the
third Mass ended, he was sure he'd suffered nerve damage.

The parishioners had all left and Fox still sat in the
last pew.  On the altar, the priest extinguished the last 
candle with an eye on Fox.  His footsteps echoed in the 
cavernous church as he made his way to Fox's pew.

"You must be very devout or very penitent.  You've 
been here all morning, haven't you?  I'm Father McCue," 
the priest said, extending his hand.

"Pleased to meet you," Fox said as he shook hands. 
Giving a false name was tempting, but completely 
inappropriate under the circumstances.  "I'm Fox Mulder.  
I enjoyed your sermon, Father."

"I'm glad, since you heard it three times.  Tell me, 
Mr. Mulder, which was your favorite edition?"

If the priest was taken aback by his famous name, he 
didn't let on.  

"You seemed especially inspired at the 9:45, but each
one was special in its own way."

"Why don't you tell me why one of the mighty Mulders 
is St. Brigid's most faithful son this morning?"

So, the old priest wasn't completely out of touch 
with the corporeal realm.  Fox wondered if Katie 
had unburdened her soul to him.

"I...ah...I believe a friend of mine attends here.  
I hoped I might see her this morning."

"My, my, you must be very devoted to this friend.  
These pews aren't very comfortable."

"Now that you mention it," Fox said, controlling the
urge to rub his numb derriere in church. 

"And your friend's name?" 

"Katie...Katherine Scully."

"Ah, yes.  The Scully's are among our most faithful
parishioners.  You missed them, though.  They usually 
come to the seven o'clock."
 
"Was Katie...was she here?" Fox asked.  Damn it, he
should have made sure he got up on time.  

"Now that you mention it, I believe it was just
Mrs. Scully and young Charlie this morning.  I do 
hope Katherine is well."

"I do too, Father," Fox said.

"Well, I'd best be on my way.  It's time for luncheon
and my housekeeper gets very cross if the food gets
cold after all her hard work."

Fox left St. Brigid's and drove home.  He was running
out of places to search for Katie.  His need to repair
the damage he'd done was so great, he had actually toyed
with the idea of hiring a private detective.  Only the
worry that the issue would be mishandled and Katie's
reputation would be further damaged kept him from 
doing so.

He arrived home and was greeted by Edgar.  Fox had 
one foot on the bottom stair, preparing to bound up
to the relative safety of his room, when the butler 
cleared his throat.

"Mr. Fox, your mother requests that you join her for 
luncheon.  Cook will be serving in half an hour."

Fox nodded and went up to his room to freshen up.  
Skinner was nowhere to be found, and Fox hoped he was 
having some success with the settlement house trustees.  
Finally, he could postpone the inevitable and he went 
downstairs. 

"Hello, dear," his mother greeted him as he entered  
the dining room.  "You were out rather early this 
morning."

"Hello, Mother."  He kissed her proffered cheek and took
his seat.  "Yes, I had something to attend to."

Edgar entered and served their poached salmon in aspic.

"I'd hoped you might escort me to Mass this morning," 
Teena said, taking a small forkful.  The Mulder family, 
along with a large percentage of society attended Trinity 
Church.  

"I'm sorry to have missed that opportunity, Mother.  
Did Father go with you?" 

"Your father slept in this morning.  He had rather too
much to drink last night.  Not very surprising, I suppose."

"No.  No, I wouldn't imagine it was.  Mother...I...I'm so 
sorry for the embarrassment I caused you."

"I wanted to talk to you about that, Fox," his mother said.  
"I have to admit to being shocked at your revelation, even 
though you'd intimated that things weren't right yesterday 
afternoon."

"I didn't have any choice, Mother.  I would have done
anything to avoid that scene but Diana left me no choice."

"I know, Son."

"You know?"

"Dear, Louise Harkness spoke to me after Mass this morning.
She's Mrs. Schuyler's cousin by marriage on her mother's side.  
She was reluctant to speak ill of a relative, as you might expect, 
but...well, it seems that Diana was quite wild when she was a 
girl.  The family kept things quiet, but there were...liaisons.  
One in particular was with a young composer. Completely 
unacceptable."

Fox hung his head.  The damage caused by this whole affair
was vast and far-reaching.  If only Diana had held to their
agreement, this nightmare might have been avoided.  

"This is terrible," he said.

"I'm afraid it is, dear.  Quite shocking.  I can't say I'm 
surprised really.  I'd always suspected she wasn't stable.
But she was a Schuyler, after all, so I convinced myself
that she was high-spirited.  Dear, you haven't touched
your salmon."

After lunch, Fox went up to Skinner's room, but the man
was still nowhere to be found.  Feeling restless and 
unsettled, he left the house and set off walking down
Fifth Avenue.  He skirted Central Park, the warm sun on
his back.  Well-dressed New Yorkers rode in carriages,
enjoying the mild Sunday and observing each other in
their finery.

Skinner had said that finding Katie might be a long
process and Fox was beginning to believe him.  It was
doubtful that Katie could ever love him as he knew she
once had.  His immaturity and selfishness had destroyed 
his chances with her.

But Fox still hoped that he would be able to find her
and that she might forgive him for his lies and his 
weakness.  To that end, he vowed to amend his life.
No more would he drink himself into a stupor to forget
his troubles.  His search for Katie would never be 
abandoned, but he'd confine it to his own time.

He'd be at work early on Monday morning and do his job 
to the best of his ability.  If his father saw fit to 
fire him, well, then Fox would accept that and find 
other work.  

He walked for hours, returning home tired but with a
calm he hadn't felt since Katie told him goodbye.  It
was time to grow up and be a man.  

As good as his word, Fox rose early the next day and
arrived at the office before his father or DT.  Even
Morris Fletcher had not arrived yet, which surprised
Fox.  Sometimes he thought Fletcher slept at the office,
so intent was the man in proving himself indispensable
to the firm.

Fox settled himself at his desk, pulling out actuarial
tables and reports that had been neglected for weeks.
It would take hours just to sort through the correspondence
that crowded his inbox.

"Fox!  You found our little office.  I'm glad the map 
wasn't necessary after all."

Dewitt Traut lounged in the doorway of Fox's office,
a wry expression on his face.  He held a mug of 
coffee in his hand.

"It was just where I remembered it to be." 
 
"Did you drive in with your father?" DT asked.  He
made himself comfortable in the chair opposite Fox's
desk.    

"Lord no," Fox replied.  "I crept out of the house
before dawn.  I'm hoping Father will cool down a
bit."

"That may take a while, son.  Still, you live in
a pretty large house.  I suppose you could avoid him
for a long time.  I take it, you haven't talked about
what happened Friday evening?"

"No, sir," Fox said, quietly.  "Father sequestered
himself in his study all weekend.  Mother decided
to get away from the city heat for a few weeks.  
That and the gossip mill."

"Newport?" 

"Maine.  The gossip will be moving to Newport next
week when the season gets underway.  Mother went to
the house in Ogunquit."

"A pity about Mrs. Fowley," DT said. He took a sip of
his coffee.  "She seemed like quite a catch.  Wealthy, 
attractive, connected.  And experienced from what I 
understand.  I guess things are rarely what they seem 
on the surface."

"She knew I didn't want to marry her and she kept 
up the charade long after I asked her to end it.
She left me no choice.  It had to be ended publicly
and definitively."

"I can see your point.  Still, it would have been
a fine match."

"I didn't love her," Fox said.

"Ah, 'love.'  The stuff of romantic stories and
fairy tales.  You'll find, Fox, that 'love' is
vastly overrated and rarely lasts."

"You're wrong, Uncle."  Fox hadn't realized he'd 
spoken so passionately until he saw a sly smile
creep across DT's face.

"Let me guess--you're in love with someone other
than Mrs. Fowley."

Fox stared at his hands, knowing without looking
up that Traut still had that amused look on his
face.  

"There is someone..." he said, finally, realizing
it was futile to try and deny his feelings when
he'd been so transparent.  "But it doesn't matter.
She wouldn't have me if I crawled over hot coals."

"So dramatic, Fox.  I'm sure it isn't as dire as
you think.  It's quite amazing what a little money
can do to salve a woman's hurt feelings."

"You don't know...She's not impressed by money or
power."

"Everyone is impressed by money and power, Fox.  
Even when they think they aren't.  It's in our 
nature."

"This girl is different.  I've never met anyone
like her."

"Then have your fun with her.  Take care of her
financially--in as grand a style as you like.   
But remember, Fox--when it comes time to settle 
down and continue the Mulder name, you have a 
responsibility to your family and to the firm.  
Not to mention the thousands of people who are 
employed because of our success.  Their livelihood 
is in your hands.  Don't be foolish and saddle
yourself with a marriage the wrong girl."

"That, Uncle, is exactly what I'm trying to
avoid."

Traut let the smirk fade from his face.

"I'm purchasing a sizeable block of Fowley
Steamships," he said.  "Word of Mrs. Fowley's 
public embarrassment has taken its toll."

"I noticed," Fox said.  He had foreseen the 
downturn, although he hadn't expected it to be 
so large.

"Do you think it's a sound investment?"

Fox sidestepped the question.

"I think it's the right thing to do," he said.

"I'll do my best to help you smooth things out 
with your father," Traut said.

"Thank you, Uncle."

The partners had a luncheon appointment with J. P.
Morgan and other bankers.  Fox was not invited to
join them.  It would take time for the Fowley scandal 
to be forgotten.  His exclusion was no hardship for
Fox; he found the meetings to be as exciting as 
watching dust settle.  

Being left behind also allowed him blessed freedom.
He purchased a hot dog from a street vendor and 
walked along Broadway.  Wandering the streets,
he enjoyed the warm weather and soon found himself
at the settlement house.  He smiled, when he realized
where his feet had carried him.  No matter he might
try to think about other things, some part of his 
heart was always with Katie.

Fox stood on the opposite side of the street, his heart
aching as he remembered how much Katie had cared about
everyone who came to the settlement house.  He'd been so
selfish, concerned with only his own wants and needs.
Now, not only was she exiled from the work she loved, but
dozens, maybe hundreds of people were denied her 
talents and compassion.

Someone came out of the front door of the settlement 
house and stood on the top step.  It was the same man who
had escorted Katie one evening when Fox had been 
parked across the street.  The man descended the stairs,
carrying a black satchel.

Fox trotted across the street, reaching the man before 
he climbed into a Model T that sat parked at the curb.

"Excuse me," Fox said.  "I noticed you were coming from
the settlement house."

He had no idea what possessed him to stop this man.  He
wasn't sure the man would even answer such an obviously
pointless remark.

"Yes," the man answered, waiting for Fox to explain 
further.

"I...I hear one can get medical care there," Fox stammered.

"Yes, but unfortunately, you've missed clinic hours.  
We're done for the day, but if you're in need of medical
care, I'll try and fit you in at my practice.  I'm Dr. 
Vitigliano.  If you come by the office on Second Avenue."

"Thank you," Fox said.  "That won't be necessary.  I've
been thinking about making a donation."

"That would be wonderful," Dr. Vitigliano said, smiling.
Fox wished he could hate this man, but he was so obviously
well-meaning, it was hard not to like him.  "Oh dear, I had
better be on my way or I'll be late for office hours."

"I don't want to hold you up.  Is there someone else I could 
speak with?" Fox asked.  "About the services offered here, 
specifically the medical treatment?"

"I'm not sure who might be able to help you.  Unfortunately,
there isn't a nurse on duty."  Dr. Vitigliano sounded bitter
about that fact and Fox wondered how much he knew about 
the circumstances of Katie's dismissal.  

"That's too bad," Fox said.

"You don't know the half of it," the doctor muttered.  "You
might check with Mrs. Berkowitz inside.  She may be able
to help you." 

With that, Dr. Vitigliano set about cranking his car with 
a bit more vigor than seemed necessary.  He quickly hopped
in, once the car was started and with a brief wave, pulled
into the street and disappeared.

Fox wasn't sure what he would do with the information he'd
gotten today.  He walked back to the office making a mental
note to have Skinner check out this Dr. Vitigliano.  

He arrived back at Mulder & Traut with minutes to spare before
his lunch hour was over.  Fox turned his attention back to 
the nest of letters and cables that had taken over his desk, 
making steady progress until Morris Fletcher appeared at his 
door.

"How nice to find you in the office, sir," Fletcher
said.

"Is there a purpose to this interruption, Fletcher?"

"There's a gentleman to see you, sir.  A Mr. John
Byers."  Fletcher straightened his shoulders, sobered
by the rebuke.  His tone made it clear that Byers did
not seem worthy of his respect, and Fox was careful to
correct that impression.

"Please show him in.  And bring us some coffee and
biscuits."

While Fletcher fetched refreshments, Fox attempted
to straighten the piles of paper on his desk.  

"So, what brings you all the way down here?"  

"My partners would be honored to meet with you.  We'd
like to show you our lab," Byers said.

"Excellent.  I'm interested as well."

"Would this afternoon be convenient?" Byers asked.

A more seasoned negotiator would have hidden his
eagerness, but Fox had no intention of exploiting his
inexperience.

"I believe I can find the time," he said.

Fletcher interrupted, bearing a tray of refreshments.

"A telephone call for you, sir.  Mr. Leamus."

"Please switch it in," Fox said.  "Excuse me a moment,
Mr. Byers."

Fox clutched slender body of the phone as he waited
for the call, lifting the earpiece on the first ring. 
Mr. Leamus was his personal attorney.  

"Something awkward has arisen, Mr. Mulder.  I believe
it would be best if you met me in my office," Leamus
said.

Joy rose in Fox's heart.  He'd handed Leamus's card to
Shayna, daring to hope that Katie would contact him. 
DT's inference that money would salve Katie's feelings
was offensive and ridiculous, but it was only right
for Fox to try to repair some of the damage he'd
caused.

"What is this about, Mr. Leamus?" he asked.

"It's rather personal, Mr. Mulder.  There's a *woman*
in my office--"

"She's there right now?"

"That's correct--"

"I'll be right over.  And please, Mr. Leamus.  Don't
let her leave!"

With a mumbled but incomprehensible apology to Byers
and not a word to Fletcher, Fox raced from the office.
He didn't stop to collect his automobile.  He would
arrive more quickly on foot.

********************
 
Fox trotted the two blocks from Mulder & Traut to
Leamus' office, leaving alarmed pedestrians in his
wake.  One particularly slow-moving woman called him
a ruffian as he shouldered past her.

As he ran, he tried to imagine what he'd say when 
Katie was at last before him.  Truth was, there 
was nothing he could say to her that he hadn't said 
already.  Fox pictured himself falling to his knees
before her, throwing his arms around her waist and
hugging her to him until she accepted his apology
and allowed him back in her life.  His chuckle at
that thought sounded insane, even to him.  

Pushing through the doors of the building, he 
passed by the elevator.  He didn't have time for a 
leisurely ride; Fox took the stairs two at a time.

He burst through the door of Leamus' outer office,
breathing hard.  Henry Weems, the attorney's
amanuensis, blinked at the sudden movement.

"Mr. Mulder," Weems said, "Attorney Leamus is 
waiting for you."

Fox all but ignored him.

"Katie!" he shouted as he shoved open the door to 
the inner office.  

"I thank you for your prompt attention," Leamus said.

The sober, gray-haired man sat behind his large oak 
desk.  There was no one else in the room.

"Where is she?" Fox asked in anguish.

"Fortunately, I have her waiting in our conference
room.  Mr. Mulder, if you can't maintain a cool
exterior, it would be best if you allow me to deal
with her alone."

"I don't want you to deal with her!  I want to see
her!"

"What kind of hold does she have on you?"

"I'm going to marry her," Fox answered impatiently.
 
Leamus sighed to himself and drummed his fingers on
his desktop.

"I'll see her now," Fox said firmly.

"She's hoping for an increase in her allocation.  
I was going to advise you to extend it to her, in
exchange for a formal relinquishment of her claims. 
Marriage isn't necessary, Mr. Mulder.  I urge you to
reconsider."

"I'll find her myself," said Fox.  He didn't know his
way around Leamus' office suite, but he could wait no
longer for his lawyer's cooperation.  Instead of
choosing the door that led outside where Henry Weems
sat waiting, Fox opened a second door.  It had to lead
somewhere.

"Have you ever seen this woman in the daylight?"
Leamus asked pointedly, following Fox into a hallway.

Fox would make him apologize, and then fire him
anyway.  But first he had to find Katie.

"Mr. Mulder, her claims are ludicrous.  Her virtue 
was lost some time in the last century."

Fox would force him to apologize, fire him and then
beat him senseless.  But where was that conference
room?

Leamus managed to slip ahead of him and open a door. 
Fox shoved him roughly in his hurry to enter the
room.

"Katie!"  The cry died in his throat as he recognized
the aging blonde chorine.

"Fox?  I knew you wanted to take care of me," said
Sheila Fontaine.

"What do you want, Sheila?" he asked roughly.

"Honey, that house you got me is so small, and the
Brooklyn Bridge is right outside my window . . ."

Fox turned his back and left the room, Leamus
trotting after him once again.

"How do you want me to handle this?" he asked.

"Any way you see fit."

"I believe an increase would be practical, in 
exchange for her quitclaim--"

"I told you, Leamus.  I don't give a damn!"

Henry Weems smiled pleasantly as Fox hurried past him.

"Good evening to you," Weems called cheerfully after
him.  

Fox stumbled down the stairs, unable to feel his feet
under him.  His heart was a lead weight in his chest
as disappointment blanketed him.  He'd been so sure
that the woman in Leamus' office was Katie.  He
should have known that she'd never accept a penny of
Mulder money.  His Katie was a proud woman.

Fox smiled at the thought.  His Katie.  Whether she
knew it or not, she was his and he was hers.  He only
had to find her and explain it to her.

A week ago, he'd have found the nearest tavern and 
set about drowning his sorrows.  But that was no 
longer an option for Fox Mulder.  Katie needed a 
mature man and not a pathetic wretch who crawled 
into a bottle.  With a deep sigh, Fox walked back 
to the office.

"Mr. Byers said to tell you he couldn't wait," 
Fletcher said when Fox returned.  

"I'll call him later," Fox muttered as he sat behind 
his desk.  The pile of correspondence and files still
awaited his attention.  

Over the next few days, Fox did his best to work hard.
His astute business sense enabled him to once again
guide Mulder & Traut to invest in several lucrative
ventures.  

His father managed to be civil to him, which puzzled
Fox until DT explained that the Fowley Steamship Company
had not resurfaced after initially taking on water.
In Bill Mulder's eyes, Fox as well as the firm had 
narrowly escaped a bad deal. 

Teena Mulder returned from Maine as soon as she heard 
that the gossip mills were painting the Mulders as the 
injured parties in the Fowley debacle.  But with the 
Newport season commencing soon, she was far too busy 
to focus on her bachelor son.   Fox was enormously 
relieved to be safe, at least for the moment, from the 
parade of insipid debutantes.  He had plans for his 
evenings that didn't include the New York City social 
whirl.

Fox called John Byers, hoping to reschedule a meeting 
with the elusive invention genius, but the man was in
Detroit for several weeks.  His instincts told him that 
the deal was solid and had the potential to make him a 
fortune.  Fox instructed Leamus to go ahead with the 
dispersal of funds to the project.  The lawyer's amused 
tone irritated him, but Fox couldn't fault the man.  
Truly, he'd made a wretched mess of his life and only
time would allow the memories of that to fade from 
people's minds.

He hadn't given up hope of finding Katie, but he was 
rapidly running out of options.  He felt his best bet
was still back at the settlement house.  Fox made a pest 
of himself with Shayna, visiting so often that she 
finally put him to work helping her make knishes.  He 
cut his thumb peeling potatoes and stiffling a curse, 
bled all over his handkerchief.  Shayna bandaged his 
hand, clucking to herself about useless rich boys.  She 
must have felt sorry for him, though, as she let her 
guard down and gave him a worthwhile tip.

Fox remembered Katie talking about her family and knew 
that her sister was married to a man who had trouble 
keeping a job.  Shayna told him that the sister was 
living in Brooklyn these days.  With Skinner's help, 
Fox obtained an address for Mrs. Daniel Murphy.

He drove across the bridge to Williamsburg, finding 
Mrs. Murphy to be a redhead with more than a passing 
resemblance to his beloved Katie.  But this woman's 
hair was a barely contained riot of curls and she had 
a baby on her hip and a toddler clinging to her skirt.

"Well, can ya beat that," she said when he told her his
name.  "Ma said you was askin' questions about Katie.  
She dint believe ya were the real Fox Mulder, but I 
seen yer pitcher in the newspaper and you're him."

"Yes, I am, and I need to find your sister.  Please, 
Mrs. Murphy, she means everything to me."  His voice 
sounded desperate in his ears.

"Ya can call me Missy," she said, her face softening.  
"You want a cuppa coffee?" 

She led him down a narrow hall to a tiny, cluttered 
kitchen.  Missy poured him a cup of strong coffee that 
burnt his tongue as he sipped it.

"Is Katie all right?" he asked, as the little boy 
peered at him from under the table.  The child drew 
closer and closer until he tugged on the cuff of Fox's 
trouser.  "I know she was turned out of the settlement 
house because of me."

"She's safe," Missy said, confirming what Skinner had 
insisted.  "She found work writin' up doctors' notes.  
It keeps body and soul together.  Mikey, stop botherin'
Mr. Mulder."

"He's fine," Fox said as he craned his neck to smile at
the child.  To his surprise, the boy climbed out from 
under the table and extended his arms to be picked up.
The child's head fit directly under Fox's chin and he
breathed in the tender, salty smell of his scalp.

She was easy to talk to, reminding him of Katie so much
that he had to blink back a tear.  This woman was both 
rougher and softer than her sister.  Hugging the warm 
weight of the child on his lap, Fox poured his heart 
out to her.  He spared nothing, from his photography, 
his search for Samantha, his love for Katie and the 
terrible mistakes he had made.  

"I believe ya," she said when he'd finally run out of 
words.  "That's where I seen yer pitcher--the paper said
you and that lady ain't gonna get married."

"Please," he had pleaded.  "I love her so much it hurts.
I need to see her."

"It ain't gonna be easy," she said.  "Katie's got 
that damn Scully pride by the bushel basket and she was
hurt real bad by what you did.  This might take some 
time." 

She promised to talk to Katie and for the first time in
days, Fox felt a glimmer of hope.  He handed her his
business card, writing both his phone number at home and
work on the back.  Missy would accept only a few coins
from his pocket so she could call him from the candy
story on the corner if she had any luck with Katie.

He stayed close to home whenever he wasn't at the office, 
but as a watched pot failed to boil, a watched phone 
refused to ring.  After a few days of staring at the 
silent black device, he grabbed his camera and headed out.   

Taking photographs soothed his soul in a way that nothing
else had.  Just as after Samantha had left, he felt 
centered by the act of framing a picture, of creating a 
record of this moment in time.

Frohike was polite about the pictures of children playing
behind a schoolyard fence, and old men napping in the
sun as they sat in chairs on the sidewalk.  But the pictures
that gained his interest were those of the workers.  

Fox no longer hid behind a pseudonym and dressed in shabby
clothes.  He dressed now in his own clothes, though he 
carefully chose simple items for his excursions.  With his
real name, he was granted access to manufacturing plants and
managed to take photographs capturing people in the act
of making things.

Factories churned out coats and candy, windowpanes and
wigs, and behind their faceless walls toiled thousands
of faces.  Young faces, mostly.  Some were children.

The factory owners explained to Fox that children took
naturally to factory work, with their energy and
nimble fingers.  He voiced no dissent, but his photos
showed little hands that had lost some of those nimble
fingers.

Fox found an unexpected audience in his mother.  She
had dropped the Orchid Society for a new passion, the
Women's Trade Union League.  Father scoffed at a
cluster of wealthy society ladies taking up the cause
of the greenhorn factory workers, but he wasn't truly
perturbed.  He laughed at Alva Belmont, calling her a
headline-grabber, but he harbored a grudging respect
for Pierpont Morgan's daughter Anne.

"Pity she wasn't born a boy," the Chief observed.

In light of his new credo of honesty in all things, Fox
showed his parents his photographs.  His father muttered 
that they were a foolish waste of time, but Fox noticed 
that Bill Mulder poured over the pictures for a 
considerable length of time and commented on the
composition of one or two.

Teena, on the other hand, took a real interest in Fox's 
photos and expressed outrage at what she saw.

"It's disgraceful!  Little children working next to
huge machines, tending open fires!"

Picketing by the shirtwaist workers continued.  Some
of the smaller manufacturers had reached agreements
but the larger ones held out.  Father said it was easy
for them to hold firm over their slow season, and that
they would have to settle by winter.  Mother made
sizeable donations to the strikers' fund.  Like Fox,
she was offended by the sheer unfairness of the
conflict.

Fox photographed the picket lines.  The first photo he
ever sold had been of three girls leaving a factory at
the end of their work day.  It would have been an
interesting study if he could have found those same
three subjects.

Most of the strikers were Jewish girls, with Italians
and others represented as well.  Their supporters
carried banners from the Women's Trade Union League,
but these were socialites and college girls.  The
police seemed equally hostile to both contingents. 
They arrested picketers and WTUL demonstrators for
disturbing the peace, but never the ruffians who came
to harass them.  Like the police, the ruffians were
soldiers of Tammany Hall.

Fox did his best to stay in the background as he took
his photographs, to avoid provoking the coppers or the
strongmen.  Late in the afternoon, the crowds thinned.
Some of the picketers headed for home, the WTUL rolled 
up their banners and the police drew back.

It served Fox well that many of the girls knew him as
the "picture man."  A few struck poses for his
benefit, which he obligingly photographed.  He
preferred to be unseen, but he was happy enough to be
tolerated.

He captured his best work of the day when a skinny old
man arrived in a cart pulled by a sway-backed gray
nag.

"The rag-picker.  Do you think he'll cross our line?"
one of the girls asked another.

Apparently the ragman traded in the textile scraps
left over by the manufacturing process.  Fox snapped
pictures as a group of girls began to argue with the
ragman.  If only he had a way to preserve the
dialogue!

"So you're on strike.  So I should suffer?" asked the
ragman.

As the girls explained their grievances and hardships,
the ragman responded with his own list of woes.  His
wife was ill!  His horse had to eat--and his wife, who
ate like a horse!  And his brother-in-law--don't ask!

But in the end, the man honored the picket line. 
Muttering about Columbus, who instead of discovering
America should have broken his head, the ragman climbed 
back onto his wagon and clicked at the horse.   Fully
occupied with his photographs, Fox was startled when
somebody tugged at his sleeve.

"Buy a paper, mister?  Get the whole World for a
penny."

There at his elbow, with his oversized cap
half-covering his eyes, was little Charlie Scully. 
Fox nearly dropped his camera.

"Charlie!  How are you?"

"Ain't easy sellin' papers in this heat." 

"You don't have any papers," Fox observed.

"I was just goin' back for my second load, but ain't
nobody wants to buy 'em when it's hot like this."

The boy had a good memory, and an eye for a sucker. 
Fox smiled.

"I see your problem.  Maybe I could take them off your
hands."

"That'd be swell, mister."

"It's not too hot to eat, is it, Charlie?  Do you like
chop suey?" Fox asked.  The hope of finding Katie
trumped the drama of the ragman.

"A fella's still gotta eat--oh, look't that!" 

Across the street one of the remaining Tammany
strongmen seemed to be picking a quarrel with the
beleaguered ragman, but Charlie's attention was
elsewhere.

"That's my brudda!  He does favors fer Big Tim!"
Charlie's face glowed with pride.  Fox studied the
ruffians across the street.  One of them was his old
adversary Tom Colton.  

"Which one?" he asked.  Fox was eager for any new
knowledge that could lead to Katie.

Without answering, Charlie dashed into the street.

"Hey, Bill!" he called.

Again Fox tried to guess which of the ham-fisted men
might be Katie's brother, until his attention was
pulled back to the rag-picker's wagon.  The ragman was
on the sidewalk now, arguing with one of the toughs,
but something or someone spooked the old horse.  It
whinnied, reared back and then tried to take off
sideways, dragging its shaky cart with it.

"Look out!" one of the factory girls yelled, but
Charlie was clearly oblivious.

Fox thrust his camera at one of the picketers and
sprinted after the boy.  The horse, which had been
dancing in panic, chose a direction and broke into a
gallop.  With his instincts working faster than his
brain, Fox hurled himself against Charlie's back,
somehow succeeding in rolling them both out of the
path of the runaway wagon.

"God in Heaven, ya saved his life, mister!"  A 
young woman with crisply curled blonde hair knelt by
Fox and the boy.  "I seen it all, yer a hero."

Blood ran from Charlie's nose, splattering his shirt.  
He groaned through gritted teeth, obviously aware
of the audience of picketers.  

"Are you hurt, Charlie?" Fox said, offering his 
handkerchief to staunch the flow of blood.  

"I want my mudda."  Charlie's voice was muffled by
the cloth and he looked as if he might cry.  "I
want Katie."  

*So do I,* thought Fox.  *Oh, so do I.*

"Then let's get you home," Fox said, helping the
child to his feet.  Charlie yelped as he tried 
to stand, his leg giving out as soon as he put
weight on it.  Fox quickly scooped him up, carrying
him to the Pierce Arrow with a parade of young 
women following behind.

The blonde woman opened the car door and helped
Fox arrange the boy on the back seat.  Another 
picketer cranked the car until it started.  When
Fox gently ran his hands over Charlie's leg, he
felt a definite lump under the skin.  

"I'll go as fast as I can," Fox said after he 
climbed into the car.  He noticed that the camera
had been placed on the front seat during the
commotion.   "You're going to be all right."

"I want my mudda," Charlie whimpered.

"OK, Charlie, I'm going to take you to your mother.  
But first we're going to find you a doctor."

"No!  It's gonna hurt!"

"He'll make it better," Fox promised.

The boy moaned as the car jounced over a bump
and Fox glanced back with worry.  Charlie's red
hair was vivid against the pallor of his skin as
he grimaced in pain.

Fox drove to Dr. Vitigliano's office on Second
Avenue, praying the whole way that the doctor was 
in.  Skinner's investigation of the man had shown 
him to have an excellent reputation as both a 
physician and a humanitarian.  Fox wished Vitigliano 
would move to another continent.

Parking at the curb, he pulled Charlie from the 
back seat as gently as he could but the boy 
screamed in pain.  A passer-by gaped at the sight 
of the bloody child carried into the building.

Luckily, Dr. Vitigliano was in his office.  The 
nurse directed Fox to carry Charlie into an 
examination room and went to get the doctor.

"Charlie!" the Vitigliano said, recognizing 
the boy. "What happened to you?"

"My leg got broke." 

"Charlie was almost run over by a horse and cart," 
Fox explained.

"He saved me, Dr. V.," Charlie managed to gasp out
as he looked up at Fox.  "I was a goner."

"Well, it looks like your diagnosis is correct,
Charlie," Dr. V. said after examining the leg.  
"It's a broken leg, all right.  I'm going to give 
you a hypodermic needle that's going to make you 
sleepy."

Charlie moaned as the nurse bared his hip and rolled 
him slightly to give the doctor access.  He cried 
briefly when the needle was given, but soon quieted 
and fell into a deep sleep.

Fox found himself a bit wobbly as the doctor and nurse
manipulated the leg to set the broken bone.  He looked
around the room to avoid watching their activities.

"I remember you," Dr. Vitigliano said, his voice even
and matter-of-fact despite his exertions.  "You were 
asking about the settlement house.  Did you ever find 
what you were looking for?"

"No," Fox answered.  "Not yet."

"How do you know young Charlie?" the doctor asked as
he wrapped the leg with cloth strips.  

"He sells me a paper from time to time," Fox answered,
not wanting to reveal more than he needed to.  "I've
driven him home in bad weather."

"I'll have a look at your head while the cast dries,"
Vitigliano said.

"I'm fine."

The nurse seemed surprised, but the doctor shrugged
and continued his work.  An hour later, Charlie's leg
was encased in a plaster of paris cast.  The boy had 
slept through the nurse washing the blood off his face 
and hands.  He roused briefly as Dr. Vitigliano and 
Fox carried him to the car, but was asleep again as 
soon as he was placed on the back seat.

"Tell Mrs. Scully that I'll be by this evening to
check on him," Dr. Vitigliano said as Fox got into 
his car.

Fox drove to the boarding house, craning his neck 
occasionally to check on Charlie.  He parked the car
and tried to lift the boy without waking him, but it
was impossible.  With the added weight of the cast and
the effects of the hypodermic, he was an awkward and
noisy burden.

"My brudda's in trouble now!  I'm tellin' Ma."

"It's OK, Charlie.  I'll have you inside in a minute,"
Fox panted.

"My own brudda.  I was a goner fer sure, mister."

Fox carried him up the steps.  Charlie leaned forward
and grabbed the knocker, slamming it vigorously until
the door was opened by his sister Missy.    

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" she exclaimed.

"Bill's in trouble now!  Tell her, mister!"

"Ma!  Charlie's been hurt," Missy called.

Fox was almost blinded by the sweat dripping down his
forehead as he carried Charlie into the parlor. 
Maggie and Missy buzzed around him, and he felt almost
lightheaded when Charlie said the very words he wanted
to say:

"Where's Katie?  I need Katie."

At last Charlie was settled onto the sofa and the 
details of his misadventure spilled out.  Bill's 
failure to respond to Charlie's call was a prominent 
detail.

"He didn't hear you.  He didn't even know you were
there," Fox assured him.

"And why not?" Maggie asked indignantly.

"Cuz he was busy with his roughnecks, tryin' to
frighten some poor sweatshop girls," Missy answered.

"No, no.  He was on the other side of the street," Fox
said.

"While his little brudda was bleedin' in the gutter,"
said Missy.

"I was a goner fer sure!" Charlie affirmed.  "Get
Katie here so I can tell her.  I need Katie to make
sure Dr. V. fixed my leg up OK."

"When she's done with her nap, child.  You close your
eyes too," Maggie said.

Fox grabbed Missy's hand.

"She's here?" he asked.  Missy met his eyes.

"Minnow's slept enough," she said.

The debate was ended when Katie appeared in the
doorway.  With everything Fox had wanted to tell 
her, he could only manage to croak her name.

"Katie."

"What in heaven's name is going on?" Katie asked.  She
gave Fox a cold stare before turning her attention to
Charlie.

"Mr. Mulder saved Charlie from a runaway cart," Missy
said.

"I was a goner fer sure," Charlie crowed.

"Katie."  It seemed to be the only word he could say.

Katie satisfied herself about her brother's condition
and then turned back to Fox.

"Thank you, Mr. Mulder.  And I'll thank you again if
you'd be on your way."

"Surely the man's entitled to a cup of tea first,"
Maggie said, to Fox's eternal gratitude.

"I want him to leave," said Katie.

"No," said Fox.

"Katie, for the love of God.  He's almost in tears,"
said Missy.

"I won't go.  Not until you listen to me."  Fox had
never felt so desperate.

"What could you possibly have to say to me, Mr.
Mulder?" Katie asked.  Her face was flushed and still
creased from her nap, and her hair was coming unpinned
on one side.  She was even more beautiful than he
remembered.

"Marry me, Katie.  I love you and I can't live without
you, and I'll spend the rest of my life working to
earn your forgiveness." 

"You've done your duty, Mr. Mulder.  You may leave
now," Katie said.

"Don't be a fool, Katherine," Maggie said harshly.  

"Katie, listen to him.  And he doesn't even know,"
said Missy.

"You didn't tell him?" Katie asked.  

"I swear, Minnow.  And look, he's hurt."  Missy traced
two fingers against the side of Fox's head, and he
pulled back in pain.  

"He is hurt," Maggie confirmed, "and you're a nurse."

Katie couldn't escape her logic.

"Sit down, Mr. Mulder."

"Thank you," he whispered.

"I'll get you some water," Missy offered.

"Your shirt is torn," Katie observed, touching his
shoulder.  "What's hurting the most, Mr. Mulder?"

"I love you, Katie."

"You'll have to remove your shirt."

"Take him to my room, Katie.  Charlie needs to rest,"
Maggie said.  

"I ain't sleepy," Charlie said, but his eyes were
closed.  "Hey, mister, you was gonna buy me some chop
suey."

"This way, Mr. Mulder," Katie directed him briskly.

He followed her.  He was at once both terrified and
confident.  He had no notion how he could convince her
to give him a second chance, but he knew he would
never, ever leave her.  

Missy brought water, a glass which he drank thirstily
and then a basin.  Then she retreated, for which he
was also grateful.

"Katie--"

"Miss Scully," she corrected him.

"I love you, Miss Scully.  I want to marry you."

Katie helped him take off his shirt.

"Just a scrape," she said, cleaning his shoulder.  "No
need for a dressing."

She used a fresh cloth to clean his temple.

"Does anything else hurt?" she asked.

"What hurts the most is when you call me Mr. Mulder."

"Well then, I believe you're all patched up--Mulder."

He laughed.  "That's what Skinner calls me.  It
sounds...different coming from you."

"Thank you again for what you did for my brother."

"He's a wonderful boy," Fox said.  He winced as Katie
applied a bit of sticking plaster.  

"He is that.  You'll live," she said, surveying her 
work.  "My mother isn't going to be satisfied until 
you've had your tea, so you might as well come 
along.  But don't get too comfortable, Mulder.  
You'll be on your way as soon as you're done." 

She led him into the dining room where Maggie and
Missy had laid the table with cups and saucers.

"You sit here, Mr. Mulder," Maggie said, indicating
a chair at the head of the table.  "Missy, cut our
guest a slice o' pie."

"Thank you," he said as Maggie Scully poured him
a cup of tea.  "You're very kind."

"Ack, go on with ya," Maggie said.  "I have to 
apologize for my behavior the time you came by
looking for our Katie.  I had no idea you were...
well, who you said you were."

"That must have been difficult for you, Mr. Mulder.
Telling the truth about who you were and not being
believed."  There was a sharpness to Katie's voice
that brought a stern look from her mother.

"Katherine Scully, I just don't know what's gotten
in to you."

Missy stifled a giggle behind her napkin, which
didn't please Katie one bit.

"Katie has every right to be angry with me, Mrs.
Scully.  I wasn't honest with her when we first 
met and I've regretted that more than I can say.
But I love your daughter, ma'am, and if she'll 
have me, I want to marry her."

"Come on, Katie," Missy said.  "Don't be such a
stiff-neck.  You're crazy about the man."

"Stay out of this," Katie told her sister.  "It
isn't any of your business."

"Like hell it isn't.  This man loves you and wants
to marry you and your stupid pride is getting in your
way.  Think of the..."

"Missy..." Katie warned.  "Be quiet."

"He's got a right to know," Missy said, looking at
her sister.

"I've got a right to know what?" Fox asked.  

"She's gonna have a baby."

"What?" Fox's tea cup clattered against the saucer
as he set it down too quickly.  He barely registered
that his fingers had been scalded by the hot tea.
"Is this true?"

"You heard her," Katie said softly.

Fox was vaguely aware of Maggie Scully rising from 
the table, and motioning for Missy to leave the dining
room with her.  Fox stood up, his hands gripping the
table's edge.

Katie's head was lowered so he couldn't see her face
but he heard her sniffle.  Fox knelt at her feet, 
covering her hands with his own.  

"I'm so sorry," he whispered.  "You must have felt
so worried and alone.  I wish I'd known.  Katie, I
don't want you to have to go through this alone.
I love you.  Please say you believe me."

"I...I believe you, Mulder."

"Then if you believe I love you, let me take care
of you."

"I wish it were that easy.  I don't even know you,
Mulder.  The man I fell in love with was Mathew Fox."

"I know you have no reason to trust me, but I'm 
going to ask you again.  Katie Scully, will 
you marry me?"

***************************
 
"And with the power vested in me by the State
of New York, I now pronounce you man and wife.  
You may kiss your bride."

Fox Mulder needed no prompting to tip Katie's 
chin up with one finger and kiss her. It was only 
when the judge cleared his throat that Fox drew 
back to smile down at her lovely, breathless face.  

"Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Mulder.  May
you have many happy years together."

With one arm around Katie's waist, Fox shook
the judge's hand.  "Thank you, sir.  I'm sure
we will."  

Fox fought the urge to pinch himself, afraid this
was a wonderful dream.  Katie standing there, leaning
into the curve of his arm, her body warm and solid.

Two weeks ago, he'd saved Charlie Scully from the 
ragman's wagon and carried him to the boarding house.
Fourteen days had passed since he knelt before Katie,
and heard her whisper the one word he longed to 
hear--yes.

Maggie Scully had not been pleased when she heard her
daughter was to be married in a civil ceremony at 
City Hall.  She had chosen to stay at home with Charlie.

But the church insisted on a lengthy period of inquiry 
before agreeing to a marriage between a Catholic and 
Protestant.  Even Maggie recognized that with Katie
two months along, time was of the essence.

He watched Katie lean over to sign the marriage 
license, the simple gold ring on her finger catching 
the light.  His own wedding band was a welcome weight 
on his hand.

"You make a beautiful bride, Katie," Missy said, 
smiling at her sister.  With her boys at the boarding 
house, Missy had been able to serve as witness, 
along with Walter Skinner.

"Thank you," Katie said, clutching the little bouquet of
orange blossoms Fox had bought her for the occasion.  

It was only the truth, Fox thought.  In an extravagantly
braided, pale yellow suit, Katie was stunning.

"Congratulations, Mulder," Skinner said, shaking Fox's 
hand.  "Don't botch this."

His hand on her back, Fox guided Katie through the door
as the little party left the office.   

"Pay the clerk on your way out," the judge called after 
them.  In the outer room, a tearful young bride sat with 
her equally young groom.  Standing over the pale-faced 
boy was a burly looking man who reminded Fox of Katie's 
ruffian brother.  

Bill Scully hadn't been very happy when he found out 
his sister was getting married to Fox Mulder.  Bill was
a man who saw the world in adversarial terms.  If you
weren't Irish and Catholic, you were the enemy.  His 
guilt over Charlie's broken leg kept Bill from venting 
his full ire over the marriage.   That and the advantages
he saw in having a wealthy brother-in-law.

They all went back to the boarding house for a small
wedding lunch.  

"Now, now, you're the guest of honor," Maggie said
when Katie reached for an apron.  "Why don't you go
check on Charlie.  Missy can help me get lunch on 
the table."

Fox followed Katie into the back room where a fractious
Charlie lay.  The bed had been moved closer to the 
open window, which did little to relieve Charlie's 
misery as he could now watch the other boys as they
played.  He pined mightily for his lost freedom.

"My leg itches," he complained.  "Them crutches dig
inta me and hurt, and Ma took away my Deadeye Dick 
books."

In the two weeks since his injury, Charlie's leg had
begun healing, but he was irritable and bored.  Katie 
tweaked her brother's toes and sat on the edge of the 
bed.

"Itching is a good sign," she pronounced.  "It means
you're healing.  Now, who on earth gave you such 
inappropriate reading matter?"  

Katie swiveled her head to look at Fox, who held up 
his hands in innocence.  In fact, Fox brought penny 
dreadfuls and candy for Charlie almost every day, 
sneaking them past Katie and her mother. 

"I would never corrupt a young mind," he lied.  "Only
wholesome stories for you, young man.  I'll have Skinner
drop off some Horatio Alger books."

Charlie's retort was interrupted by Maggie in the doorway
announcing that dinner was ready.   Katie left to help her
mother as Fox brought Charlie his crutches.

"Now those Alger books are pretty big," Fox murmured into
Charlie's ear as he leaned over to help Charlie up.  "A
Deadeye Dick fits inside with room to spare.  I'll have
Skinner get a few of those, too."

"A pity your parents couldn't be here," Maggie said when 
they were all settled around the table.

"Yes," Fox agreed.  "It's too bad they're out of town."

That wasn't exactly a lie, Fox thought.  His mother and 
father were in Newport and not so far away that they 
couldn't have come back for their only son's marriage.  
Somehow, though, the Scullys had gotten the impression 
that the Mulders were in Europe.

The truth was, Fox hadn't told his parents that he was
getting married.  The morning after Katie had accepted
his proposal, Fox woke to find his parents preparing to
leave for the summer house.  It seemed like providence, 
so he decided to tell them when the act was complete.  
In fact, he'd sent them a telegram this morning, saying
that he was spending a month at the family camp in the 
Adirondacks and would have a wonderful surprise for them 
when he saw them next.

He was pretty sure Katie was on to him, at least from
the shrewd look she gave him now.  He'd promised her
that he was done with lying, but it was foolish to wait
for his parents to return from Newport and risk coloring
their opinion of Katie with inconvenience.

For he was sure his parents were going to love her.  How
could they not?   With her kind heart and lovely presence,
Katie charmed everyone she had ever met.

"It wouldn't be a wedding without cake," Maggie Scully 
said, as she brought out a pretty cake decorated with 
yellow sugar roses.

"Cut me a big piece," Charlie demanded.  "And I want a 
rose, too."

"All hail King Charlie?" Missy said, holding a piece of 
cake just beyond the boy's reach.  "You'll sooner get a 
smack on the head from me with those manners, broken leg
or no."

"Please?" he pleaded.  His sister cocked her head as if
trying to decide what to do before she placed the cake
before him.

After they had their cake, Fox looked at his pocket 
watch.

"Katie, we should be on our way.  I'd want to make it
to Twin Pine Lake before dark."

"Ain't it romantic," Missy said as Katie rose from the 
table.  "A honeymoon in a cozy cabin in the woods."

Katie retrieved her new leather grip filled with the few 
clothes she allowed Fox to buy her for their honeymoon.  
Fox took the bag from her as they made their farewells 
and soon they were on the road.

She fell asleep somewhere between Poughkeepsie and
Saugerties.  Watching Katie sleep was one of Fox's secret
pleasures and he was getting more opportunities during
her pregnancy.  He settled into the long drive, enjoying
the breeze through the open windows.

He chuckled remembering Katie's reaction when he suggested
they honeymoon at Twin Pine Lodge.  Her only experience
with the country were the Tammany Hall excursions which
generally resulted in sunburn, mosquito bites and cases 
of poison ivy, despite the officials' dire warnings.

He wondered what she'd say when she saw the lodge.  He'd
spent some of his happiest moments at Twin Pine.  It had
been built by his grandfather in 1880.  Bill Mulder did
not enjoy spending time at the camp, but Fox had spent
many summer days with his grandfather.  When Laurents Mulder
died eight years ago, he left Twin Pine Lodge not to his
son, but to his grandson.

Katie woke just as they were entering Albany.  Watching
her stretch and yawn, her graceful arms over her head, 
Fox nearly lost control of the car.  

"I didn't mean to fall asleep," she said. 

"You must have been tired."

"I'm always tired, these days.  I just about fall 
asleep when I'm walking."

"I'll be sure to wake you if you doze off while we're
hiking.  Or swimming."

"Mulder, you know I can't swim.  I still don't know 
why you bought me a bathing costume."

"I'm a very good swimmer.  I'm going to teach you."

She shot him a skeptical look.  He grinned back at
her and covered her hand with his.

He still had trouble believing his Katie was here
with him, traveling to their honeymoon.  When she'd
first agreed to marry him, he knew the impending birth
of their child was her main motivation.  It was his
job, now, to convince her that marriage was a good
idea in every way.

Finally, they turned off the main road onto the
narrow pathway to the lodge.  The car bumped along
the unpaved path before breaking through the trees
to view the magnificent rustic chalet main building
of Twin Pine Lodge.  

"Here we are."  Fox pulled the car onto the gravel
driveway.  The sky behind the lodge was tinged with
pink as the sun set, painting the weathered wood with
a soft glow.

Katie gaped at the building as she got out of the car.  
 
"Let me show you inside," he said, guiding her up the
wooden steps.  

She gasped when he opened the door, revealing the great
hall with its massive stone fireplace and vaulted 
ceiling.   A carved wooden staircase led to the upper
floor where the bedrooms lay.

"Holy Mary, Mother of God," she murmured.  "This is 
your...camp."

"We like to be comfortable," he said.  "Come on, I'll 
show you the kitchen." 

"Mulder, this is far too grand," she said, following him
into the enormous kitchen.  "You could fit my mother's
entire house in that room out there."

"I had the caretaker stock the pantry for us," Fox
said as he checked the ice box.  "Fried chicken, cold
salads, cheese, eggs, milk and roasted beef.  We 
certainly won't starve."

He knew Katie was going to have a difficult time adjusting
to the opulence his family took for granted.  If left to 
his own devices, Fox would live far more simply.  But he 
had to admit, he liked being comfortable and he loved his 
lodge.

"Let me show you the bedrooms," he said, taking her hand.

Fox carried their bags up to the second floor and into the
master suite.  Katie followed, her eyes wide and rather
alarmed.  Her gaze traveled around the room from the 
massive four-poster bed to the oak armoire and finally 
the chaise lounge by the windows.   

"It's beautiful," she said after a few minutes of wandering
through the bathroom, and his and hers dressing rooms.  

Fox wasn't sure if she was overwhelmed by the size of
the lodge or if, perhaps, he'd assumed too much by settling
them both in the master bedroom.  Katie had seemed pensive
since they had arrived.  After a moment, she slipped off 
her jacket and went into her dressing room to hang it up.
Well, at least she was planning on staying. 

"Do you want to unpack, or are you hungry?" he called out
as he flopped onto the chaise.

"Unpack, then eat," she replied, her voice muffled as she
bent over her bag.  "I haven't had a chance to thank you for 
my new clothes.  Although, I could have certainly made do with 
what I had, especially as I'll be too fat to wear these soon."

He'd taken her to the finest clothing store in New York
City to buy an appropriate trousseau for an Adirondack
honeymoon.  With such a brief engagement, there had only
been enough time to have off-the-rack items tailored 
for her.  Fox smiled, watching Katie hang up the twill
walking skirts and summer frocks.  She'd be so surprised
when she saw the full wardrobe he ordered while she was
changing back into her own clothes.

"Would you like me to unpack your clothes?" she asked
as she returned to the bedroom where Fox was sprawled.

"I'll take care of it later," he said, patting the
chaise next to him.  When she had joined him, he 
stroked a finger along her jaw.  "How are you feeling?"

"A little tired," she replied, closing her eyes at
his touch.  "And starved."

They went downstairs and surveyed the full larder. 
Sitting at the rough-hewn oak table in the kitchen, they
ate a supper of cold roasted beef and potato salad.  
 
As they sat over a dessert of oatmeal cookies and
glasses of iced tea, Fox enjoyed watching his new
wife with unabashed happiness.  Skinner had spoken
the unvarnished truth when he called Fox "one lucky 
bastard" upon learning Katie had accepted his proposal.  

When he noticed that Katie could hardly keep her eyes
open, he suggested they make an early night of it.  She
offered him a sleepy smile and took his hand as he
drew her up to bed.

"I feel like such an baby," she said, as he unbuttoned
her dress and helped her out of it.  "Falling asleep
as soon as it gets dark out.

She stood before him in her camisole and petticoat, 
as beautiful and graceful as a Degas ballerina, so
tired she was swaying on her feet.  It amazed him that
she was so open and natural in her state of undress.
Katie had always been a practical woman, not given to
girlish airs.  

She roused long enough to slip into her nightgown.
It took all Fox's self-control to help her slide
between the crisp sheets of the big bed.  

Though he wasn't the least bit sleepy, Fox stripped
off his suit, tossing each item onto the chaise 
and climbed into bed behind her.  As he lay in 
the darkness, he rejoiced again in the deep 
pleasure of curving his long body around Katie's
smaller one.

Fox slept well, but woke early and slipped out of bed.  
Katie lay sleeping on her side, her mouth slightly 
open.  He wanted to kiss her but wouldn't risk 
rousing her.

Fox had pledged himself to perform a certain task 
and he wanted to complete it, unaided, before Katie 
was awake.  He wanted to make coffee.

He had watched Katie do it.  He and Skinner had tried
it together, with mixed results.  He had begged Cook
to teach him, and produced several drinkable pots
under her direct guidance.  This morning he was on 
his own.

He knew how to light the stove and grind the beans and
measure the water.  The tricky part was the timing. 
Skinner said to lower the heat just before it boiled
over.  Amusing, but less than helpful.  Cook seemed to
do it entirely by instinct.  Katie said something
about the frequency of the percolation and watching
the color of the liquid.

Breakfast had been such a magical time for them once,
quiet and intimate.  Fox hoped to awaken those old
feelings.  Breakfast in bed.  Then something else.  
He ached to feel himself inside her again, but not 
until she felt those longings as well.

Fox's sense of triumph when he sampled the coffee was
no less than when he'd convinced Father to loosen his
ties with Equitable Insurance.  He prepared a cup for
Katie and carried it upstairs.
 
She wasn't in the bed, so Fox wasn't surprised to hear
movement from the direction of the dressing room.  
What did surprise him was when he made out the sounds
of vomiting.  She was in the bathroom beyond the
dressing room.

"Katie!" He burst into the bathroom, where his eyes
confirmed what his ears had heard.

"Mulder, get out."

"But you're ill!"

"Out.  Now."

He retreated reluctantly, closing the door behind him.
He wanted to run downstairs where there was a
telephone, but he was afraid to leave her.

She came out of the bathroom and glared at him.

"Mulder, we're going to have to establish some rules
of conduct."

"Are you OK?"

"I'm fine.  Just some morning sickness."

"I've heard of that."

"Good.  Have you heard of privacy?"

"Er, yes."  He felt unbearably foolish.  "I, er, made
you coffee.  But you probably don't want it now."

She actually smiled.

"Give me a few minutes," she said.

She wanted to dress for breakfast, so he left her
dressing room for his own and did the same.  He
thought back to the simple closeness they'd shared in
the kitchen at the settlement house, with Katie in her
muslin nightgown.  

His disappointment vanished when she joined him at the
table.   She looked unbelievably charming in her sturdy
twill walking skirt and cambric blouse.  He cut two thick 
slices of bread and passed her one.

"Bread and jam.  Like before," she commented a little
wistfully.

"I loved you then and I love you now.  Nothing's
changed for me."

She met his eyes but said nothing.  Fox sighed.

"I know.  You fell in love with Mathew Fox, and now
you're married to Fox Mulder," he said.

"Well, you do look very much like him.  Only thinner."

"Yes, Mathew was a fine, brawny lad.  Good with his
fists."

Katie laughed, and the whole room seemed to brighten.

"We'll have to fatten you up.  Although soon I'll be
fat enough for both of us."

After breakfast Katie agreed to a hike, and Fox was in
his glory as he led her over one of his favorite
trails.  She was enchanted by the most ordinary
discoveries and astounded by the variety of life.  Fox
had never considered himself a naturalist, but his
knowledge was sufficient to impress Katie.

Toads, chickadees and even skunks filled her with
wonder.   Fox made the huge blunder of directing her
attention to the large, gnarled roots of a red cedar 
tree.

"See how he's hidden among the old leaves?" he asked.

"I don't see anything," she began, but then she saw
it.  And screamed.  Fox took her hand and drew her
back.

"I'm sorry.  I didn't know you were afraid of snakes,"
he said. 

"I'm not," Katie said, gripping his hand.  "I was only
startled."

Fox regretted that he'd frightened her, yet it was
taking all his will not to laugh.  The snake in
question was a slender garter snake, no more than a
foot long.

"It can't possibly hurt you," he said.

"I was taken by surprise, that's all.  Just a harmless
little snake."  She couldn't suppress a shudder. 
"There aren't any venomous snakes here."

Fox hesitated.  There were some timber rattlers, but
they'd never been a problem.

"Mulder?"  She had caught his hesitation.  "Are there
any venomous snakes in this area?"

"As long as you don't go poking under rocks and look
before you step--" he started to explain.

"Take me back," she demanded.  

The walk back to the lodge was faster than the hike
out.  Katie stuck by his side and never let go of his
hand.

"Mulder, do you remember the first time you came to
the east side?" Katie asked suddenly.

"I lost my way.  All those narrow streets with names
I'd never heard of.  I felt as if everyone was
watching me."

"You felt as if you didn't belong."

"I felt like a trespasser.  Tom Colton wasn't the
first who told me to mind my own business and go
home."

"Now I'm the trespasser," Katie said.

"Never.  This is yours now."

"You've met my mother.  I've never met yours."

"My mother will love you.  She'll want to know
everything about your work at the settlement house. 
My father will start out aloof, until he realizes 
how smart you are."

"You're a dreamer, Mulder.  I'm not part of your
world."   

"You are my world, Katie."

He felt her squeeze his hand, and he squeezed back.

The woods were thinning as they approached the lodge.

"It's much warmer here," Katie commented.

"We can cool off in the lake."  

Fox looked up at the sky, counting the few fluffy
clouds, as he waited for her answer.  If she saw his
face, she would know what he was thinking.  He pictured
his arms about her in the water, her body against his 
with only a few yards of wet silk and taffeta between 
them.  The sales assistant had raised her eyebrows at 
his choice of costume, with its scandalously short 
knickers and a skirt barely to the knees.  She had 
warned Katie quite sternly that she must wear dark 
stockings, not light ones, or her knees would show.

"That would be nice," Katie said.

"OK!"

They clasped hands even as they entered the great hall
of the lodge, and Fox gave thanks to the timid local
snakes that had delivered her hand into his.  They
parted for their separate dressing rooms.

The seclusion of the camp had allowed for nude
swimming, one of life's great pleasures, but now Fox
was glad for the thick cover of his swimwear.  He could 
feel Katie warming toward him, and he dared to hope that 
he could regain her trust.  But he would have to let her 
take the lead in the matter of intimacy.

The sight of Katie in her bathing dress put Fox's
restraint to the test.   The curve of her hips and
legs made him long to tumble her to the floor.  He
confined his appreciation to a huge smile.

"I love this costume," Katie said.  "It's very
practical."

He mumbled his agreement as they walked down to the
dock.

Katie looked out over the glassy surface of the lake.

"It's calm and still.  Nothing like the ocean," she said.

Fox remembered that her father had been lost at sea.

"It's gentler.  Not so deep and cold," he said.  

"You go in first."

"OK."  He dived in and swam out a few strokes before
he surfaced.  

"You can use the ladder," he called to her.

"Is it cold?" she asked.

"Just at first.  Come on in, Katie."

She climbed gingerly down the ladder, but stopped at
the lowest rung above the surface of the water.

"Come on," he called.

She took another step down, so that her feet were in
the water.

"It's freezing!" she complained.

"It's warmer once you start moving."

She swirled on foot around.

"Still freezing," she announced.

Fox was about to tell her that it didn't matter, they
could try another day, when she flung herself into the
water.  He grabbed her even as she grabbed on to him,
and finally he had to reach for the ladder to keep
them both afloat.

"You make quite a splash," he said.  It was just as
he'd imagined, their bodies so close and Katie
clutching him with all her might.

"Are you laughing at me?" she asked.

"You were wonderful.  I just wasn't expecting that."

"Well, stay alert.  I'm waiting for my swimming
lesson."

He guided her hands to grasp the ladder instead of him
and instructed her in the art of the kick.

"Your legs are stronger than your arms.  That's where
you get most of your power," he said.

He taught her as he had been taught, one action at a
time.  After she'd mastered the various kicks and some
basic strokes, he had her take a breath and rest on
her back with her arms outstretched.

"Look, you're floating," he said, his arms just
beneath her.

"You're not holding me?"  she asked in shock.  She
broke into a frenzy of kicking and reaching, and Fox
pulled her close again.

"I think that's enough for the first lesson," he said.

"I almost had it," she said, regaining her dignity.

"You had it, Katie.  But you're cold and tired."

"I'm not, Mulder, not at all."

Her lips were blue, and Fox wondered belatedly if he
should have been more considerate of her condition.

"I'm hungry.  Let's go inside," he said.

The pine needles crunched under their shoes as Fox
and Katie walked through the pines.  His arm was
around her waist and he could feel her shivering
in her wet bathing costume.  

"You're chilled," he said, drawing her closer.  
"I'll run you a hot bath."

He reluctantly released her from his grip, as they
entered the lodge.  Katie wrapped her arms around
herself and he wondered if she missed his embrace 
as much as he missed holding her.

"Let me get that bath started," he said.  He took
the stairs two at a time, passed through the bedroom
and had the taps running full force before she
made her way into the bathroom.

"Do you have any idea what a wonder that is?" she asked, 
pointing at the steamy water pouring into the porcelain
tub.  He'd tossed a handful of rose bath salts 
into the water and now the scent permeated the air.

"It's a convenience," he said.  Leaning over, he splashed
a hand around in the water, satisfying himself that 
it was the right temperature.

"You've never had to heat water on the stove and lug 
bucket after bucket of it up a flight of stairs or you  
would see this for the miracle it is," she replied with
a chuckle.

"Well, why don't you get into this nice, hot, miraculous
convenience and warm up?"  

She was right, he thought, as he watched her unfasten
the buttons on her suit.  There were a thousand aspects
of life that he'd never had to deal with.  He prided
himself on being down to earth, but he was quite aware
that wealth had smoothed his way through life in ways
he couldn't begin to know.

The wet sleeves of her bathing costume twisted on her 
arms, trapping her, until he helped her loosen their 
bonds.  Katie's skin was clammy and cold under his hands 
as he helped her wriggle out of the bathing costume.  
It was all he could do not to take her then and there 
on the hard tiles of the bathroom floor.  

His hungry eyes took in the changes pregnancy had 
wrought on her body.  Her breasts were fuller and his
hands itched to cup them.  Her belly, once so flat, 
curved just enough to hint at things to come.

"In you go," he said, gripping her hand to steady her 
as she stepped into the tub.  Katie sank down in the 
hot water with a deep, satisfied sigh.  

"Oh, Mulder, this must be what heaven feels like."  

"You look like an angel," he said.  Her breasts bobbed
at the edge of the water, the nipples rosy from the heat.
Katie's cheeks and lips were flushed pink.

"I look like a bedraggled mouse," she said, unpinning 
her hair and smoothing out the tangles.  "You must be 
cold, Mulder.  You're shaking."

"I'm fine."

"Your lips and fingernails are blue.  You've been so 
concerned about me, but you're just as cold and wet."

"I'm used to it," he said.  "I've been swimming in that
lake for years." 

"Well, you should get out of that wet bathing suit."

He nodded.  The wool fabric felt clammy and uncomfortable.
Fox went into his dressing room and stripped off the wet
suit, pulling on his dressing gown.  

When he returned to the bath, he didn't see Katie.  His
curiosity was relieved when her head broke through the
surface of the bathwater with a gasp.  

Tilting her head back, she swept the hair from her 
face.  "Would you pour some clean water over me," she 
asked.

He retrieved the silver water pitcher from the bedroom
and filled it with warm water at the sink.  Katie 
knelt in the tub and tilted her head back so he could
pour the water over her.  It sluiced over her hair and
skin in a sparkling rush.

There were a few memories that he would keep with him
always--the vision of Katie with the laundry basket
the first time he'd seen her, the way she looked the
morning after they'd made love for the first time, her
sweet face on their wedding day.  But this image
of Katie, back arched, breasts glistening and wet,
hair a russet tumble down her back where strands 
clung to her perfectly rounded bottom--this was
something to dream on until he died.

Katie rose out of the water to stand before him.
Bending at the waist, she twisted her hair into a 
long rope, squeezing the water out.  His mouth was 
dry, and he was in serious danger of having his 
manhood jut out through the folds of his dressing gown.  
Katie straightened up and extended her hand.

"Can you hand me a towel?  Mulder?" 

He couldn't move.  He couldn't speak.  Fox wanted
her with an ache so deep, it threatened to drop him
to his knees.  Standing in the tub, Katie was almost
as tall as he was.  Her eyes were wide, the blue
so intense he was reminded of the lake on a clear
day.  

He felt the magnetic pull of attraction drawing him
forward until he stood inches from her warm, wet
body.  Her eyes never left his face and he wondered
if she felt the same force between them.

And then her arms were around his neck and her lips
pressed to his and he knew she felt it too.  His 
dressing gown became plastered to him as her wet
body pressed against his.  Her skin was smooth and
fragrant under his hands.

With his arms around her waist, he lifted her out 
of the tub and set her down.  His joy could barely
be contained when she untied the sash on his dressing
gown and pushed it off his shoulders.

Her hands were gentle and familiar as they stroked
over his shoulders and down his chest.  She slipped
her arms around him, pressing an open-mouth kiss
between his pectorals.

"I've missed you," she whispered into his skin. 
"So very much."

He wanted to speak, to tell her that he hadn't had
a happy day without her.  But his words couldn't get
past the lump he had in his throat after hearing 
her words.

He swept her up in his arms and carried her into the
bedroom.  His heart raced with the knowledge that he
would soon be making love to his sweet Katie.

He lay her on the bed and climbed along side so he
could drink in the sight of her.  Katie's skin seemed
as white and smooth as he remembered, but he decided
a thorough examination was needed.

He traced her body with the tips of his fingers, 
skimming over the fullness of her breasts.  Her 
nipples were as hard as pebbles and she gasped 
when he touched them.  

"They're sensitive these days," she said softly.  
He drew his hand away, but she grabbed it and 
directed it back to her breast.  "Don't stop, I 
like it."

He almost threw his head back and crowed with pure
pleasure.  A woman who told him what she liked...
he was surely the luckiest man on earth.  She 
apparently liked touching him as well as her hands
were traveling over his body, touching, caressing,
stroking.  

She pulled him onto her, spreading her legs until
he rested in the cradle of her thighs.  In a 
heartbeat, he was in her and he wanted to cry out
with the sheer wonder of it.  Her legs wrapped 
around him, holding him within her and he thought
that maybe this was a miracle to her too.

He wanted to commit the sensations to memory--the
way she felt under him, how tight and hot she was
around him--but the need to move was far too strong
and he began to thrust into her.

He knew he couldn't last long, certainly not with
Katie moaning and mumbling over and over that she
loved him.  Her body undulated beneath him and her
heels dug into the small of his back.  Suddenly,
she stiffened and cried out.  His world shattered
into a thousand pieces of light and sound and 
emotion.

They lay wrapped in each other's arms, as their 
breathing returned to normal.  Fox stroked a 
finger along Katie's cheek.  

"Didn't you say something a while ago about being 
hungry?"

"Now that you mention it," he laughed.  "I'm starved."

Katie's hair was still quite wet, so Fox laid a fire 
in the massive stone fireplace in the great hall so
she could dry it.  They spread a blanket out in 
front of the hearth and had a picnic lunch of cold
fried chicken and pickled tomatoes.  Fox roasted 
potatoes over the open fire.

"Who taught you how to swim?" Katie asked between bites 
of chicken.  

"My grandfather, fortunately.  My father used to tease
that when I was in over my head I'd figure it out
quickly enough, but my grandfather taught me step by
step. I never afraid with him."

"I wasn't afraid either.  Except once or twice."  She
laughed and reached for a pickle.  "You love it her,
don't you?"

"I do," he confessed.  "I wish we could stay here 
forever."

"We have to go home eventually," she said.  "But 
where is home going to be, Mulder?"

"I suppose we'll stay at a hotel until we find 
a house.  We have the whole city to choose from,
though.  I thought perhaps we'd live near Central
Park.  Maybe you'd like to learn to ride a horse."    

"That's funny," she said, her face pensive.  "You
once suggested we buy a house near Washington Square
Park.  But that wasn't Fox Mulder."

"No.  No, it wasn't," he replied.  It was Mathew Fox who
had said that, it seemed like a lifetime ago.  "We could 
live wherever you want, Katie.  Washington Square, Central
Park--I'd live with you in a shoebox."

"A shoebox with a nursery," she said, laughing.  

"And a darkroom."

"And a dumbwaiter.  Mrs. Tibby had one and it was such
a convenience."

"Mrs. Who?  Sounds like a housecat."  

"It's Mrs. Thibedeaux, actually, but everyone calls her
Mrs. Tibby.  She lead the Shakespeare Players at the 
settlement house.  Mrs. Tibby took me in when I lost 
my job."

"Oh God," Fox said, taking her hand.  "I hate that they
did that to you.  I'm glad she was there for you."

They talked all afternoon, imagining their lives together.
Over the next weeks, they would talk often of where they
would live, how they would order their lives.  

They swam nearly every day.  Katie grew to be a natural
in the water.   For her second swimming lesson, Katie 
dispensed with the black stockings.  By the third time,
they left all the black taffeta and wool back on the shore
and swam as God made them.  Fox noted that Katie's backstroke
was much improved once her arms were free of restrictions.
The sight of her round breasts arching out of the dark water 
was icing on the cake.

Fox took her hiking often, though she always kept a wary eye 
out for snakes.  They would take their lunch along and picnic 
in the woods.  More than a few times, they were so overcome 
with desire that they made love under the trees.

They couldn't keep their hands off each other.  A glance,
a touch, a sigh was sometimes all it would take to 
draw them into each other's arms.  Fox and Katie christened 
just about every room in the lodge, from the great hall to 
the kitchen pantry.

Fox gave scarcely a thought to the world of finance
and investing.  DT telephoned one evening to ask his
opinion of the Bessemer process versus the open
hearth, and Fox practically growled at him.

"You're intruding on my honeymoon, Uncle," Fox said
darkly.

DT chuckled.

"If that's what you want to call it."

Fox had left Katie sitting by the fire to answer the
telephone.  He hoped she couldn't hear him.

"I told you I was marrying the girl I loved.  Wasn't
that clear to you?" he asked.

"Most weddings involve families, parties, planning and
announcements.   I don't think you were as clear as
think," DT answered.

"I'd be pleased to discuss steel mills when I return
to New York," Fox said, and he hung the earpiece back
on the phone with a decisive click.
 
The world within the confines of the lodge was golden
and filled with love.  Fox had not been so blessed in
his life to not be a bit protective of that new and
wonderful world.

Some days, they drove down to the village where they 
bought provisions. Katie would wear one of her new
summer frocks, and they'd have ice cream sodas at the 
local drug store.

Frequently Fox would find Katie sweeping in the 
kitchen or otherwise performing the duties of a maid, 
and when he couldn't persuade her to stop, he found 
himself helping her.  When she insisted that the 
floors had to be washed and waxed, he arranged for 
the caretaker to see to it, and whisked Katie off 
for a day at Saratoga Springs.  They sampled the 
waters, which Katie found quite disappointing.  
Then he showed her the race track and bought her an 
extravagant dinner at the Italian Gardens.   

DT had the temerity to telephone a second time, and
Fox was confused by both the tone and content of the
conversation.

"Pardon me for interrupting your honeymoon.  I'll be
brief," Traut said.

"What happened?"  Fox had been so isolated that
anything could have occurred without his knowledge. 
Perhaps J.P. Morgan and Bernard Baruch had formed a
partnership.  Maybe Andrew Carnegie had married
Elizabeth Gurley Flynn.   

"Your father and I have been very, very happy with
your work.  I hope you've been equally happy here."

"I see," said Fox, although he was baffled.

"A young fellow with your charm and talent can expect
offers from other bankers.  Fox, don't make any
decisions without talking to me.  Or your father. 
He'll be returning to town this week."

"OK."

"You'll find that some firms follow their own rules. 
Some men make their own rules."

"I haven't sought a change in employment, Uncle."  Fox
wondered if Morris Fletcher had decided to start that
rumor.

"I know that, son.  Be careful, that's all."  DT ended
with a hearty congratulation for Fox and his new
bride, and Fox mumbled his thanks.

"May I ask what that was about?"  Katie asked.  She
had followed him into the library when the telephone 
rang.

"I haven't a clue," Fox said.  "Uncle Dewitt prides
himself on being enigmatic."

"You have an Uncle Dewitt?  I'm sorry he couldn't
attend our wedding," Katie said.

Fox was about to explain that "uncle" was an honorary
term, when he noticed what Katie was wearing.

"That's my shirt!"  Katie had been half-undressed when
he'd left her to answer the phone.  Evidently she'd
donned his discarded shirt, but failed to button it
over her naked skin and the effect was breath-taking.

"Do you mind?" she asked, smiling seductively.

"God, no!"

The library was one of the few rooms they had yet to 
christen, but that omission was swiftly rectified.

DT's muddled warning would have been forgotten if not
for an incident the next day.

Fox left Katie sipping her soda in the drug store
while he drove off alone to purchase gasoline.  When
he returned he found her somber and unsettled.

"You really must teach me more about your world," she
said.

"I told you, Katie.  You are my world."

"I'm serious, Mulder.  A man sat down next to me and
started to speak as if he knew everything about us."

"Who was he?"  

"I was too taken aback to ask his name.  He said you
were a man with a great destiny, and I could be part
of that.  Indeed, it was my duty to be part of that."

The soda jerk was a dim young man known, appropriately
enough, as Zero.  Fox called him over.

"Do you know the man who was talking to my wife?" he
asked.

Zero shook his head.

"Never saw him before.  Gave me a whole dollar for a
pack of Morleys and didn't even want his change," Zero
said.  Fox placed a dollar on the counter and led
Katie out of the drug store.

"Did he threaten you, Katie?" he asked.

"Not in words.  But I didn't like the way he spoke to
me."

Fox didn't like it either.  The next day they drove
back to New York.
 
****************************
 
"Welcome to the Plaza Hotel," the desk clerk said.
"Your suite is ready, Mr. Mulder.  I hope you and
Mrs. Mulder enjoy your stay."

The man rang his bell and the bellman appeared to
take their bags.  Katie's eyes were huge as she took
in the elegant hotel lobby with its palatial marble
walls and floor.  Fox was rather pleased with himself 
for choosing the Plaza.  Only two years old, the hotel
was the epitome of opulence.

Katie's fingers were tight around his arm as they
followed the bellman to the bank of elevators.  

Their suite was on the eighth floor.  The bellman
opened the door and they entered.  Fox heard Katie's
quiet gasp at the beautiful mahogany furniture, heavy
silk drapes and damask upholstery.  

A lavish arrangement of roses adorned the carved 
dining table, with smaller ones on either side of the
sofa.  A box of chocolates sat beside a large bowl
of fruit on the coffee table.  Fox was pleased to
see his instructions had been followed.

"Thank you," he said to the bellman, handing him a
quarter.  "That will be all."

Katie wandered around the room in silence, finally
stopping at the window.  Fox came behind her, his
hands encircling her waist.  He wouldn't be able
to do that much longer, he thought.

"Is everything all right?" he asked, leaning
close to her ear.  

"It's fine," she said, turning her head to look
into his eyes.  "This is...it's just going to
take some getting used to."

She stretched up to place a soft kiss at the 
corner of his mouth before stepping away.  Katie
took off her hat and went into the bedroom.

"Sweet Jesus!  What on earth is this?" 

Fox rushed into the room to find Katie standing,
hands on hips, surveying a sea of glossy white
boxes that were piled on the bed.  Each box was
emblazoned with the name "Lord & Taylor."

"Mulder?" she said, turning to face him.

"They're for you," he said.  "A brand new wardrobe.
I wasn't sure they would arrive in time."

"You bought me a wardrobe?  When?  I don't understand."

Katie's sharp tone was far from the delighted surprise 
he'd pictured when he ordered the dresses and hats and 
undergarments.  

"I ordered all of this when we bought your honeymoon
clothes," he said.  "I wanted to surprise you."

"Well, you certainly succeeded at that."  Katie's gaze
was sharp as she looked first to the mountain of boxes
and then back at him.  No, this was not at all what he
had in mind when, with one eye on the dressing room where
Katie was putting her old clothes on, he'd given his
instructions to the dressmaker.   "Did you stop to think 
that perhaps I wanted to choose my own clothes?"

Fox struggled to answer her.  He'd truly not meant to 
offend Katie.  He knew she was a very practical woman,
but, surely, all women liked pretty things.  

"I thought you'd be happy," he said finally.

"Mulder," she began, her head down, eyes shadowed by
her lashes.  "Were you...were you afraid I'd embarrass 
you as I am?"

"No," he said, taking her hands in his.  "Never that.  
Katie, you have to know how much I admire everything
about you."

He brought her hand up to his mouth and pressed a 
reverent kiss onto her palm.   Katie closed her eyes
and allowed him to pull her into an embrace.  

"I'm sorry," she whispered.  "It was very thoughtful
and I'm being incredibly ungrateful.  Why don't we
open the boxes and see what you picked out?"

Fox had explained to the sales associate that he wanted
simple, elegant clothes for his wife.  He'd told her
that his bride needed a number of practical dresses
for daytime.  He'd also ordered lovely gowns for 
evening for no other reason than he wanted to see her
in satin and velvet.  

As Katie opened each box and shook out each garment, 
Fox saw that the saleswoman had done a remarkable 
job of translating his wishes into reality.   Between
them, they emptied all the boxes and put the clothes
into the capacious closet alongside Fox's suits.   
Skinner had arranged for them to be sent over before 
Fox and Katie's arrival.

"Oh, Mulder, I love this one," Katie said, holding
up a nile green dress with a large, scalloped 
collar.  "I've never had so many pretty things. It's
too bad that I'll only get to wear them for a few
more months."

"Then we'll buy you some new clothes."

"Mulder, I want you to promise me one thing," she
said, putting her arms around him.  "No more
surprises.  I love the new clothes, but please 
let me decide what I need and don't need."

Katie drew him down for a passionate kiss, and any
argument he might have had was forgotten.  With his
arms around her, he reveled at the way her curves 
melted against his hardness.

They pulled at each others clothes and Fox wished for
the hundredth time that there weren't so damn many
buttons and hooks and layers to Katie's garments.  
He'd invest millions in easier to open fastenings
for women's clothing.   

He and Katie made love amid the boxes and wrappings
and dresses on the bed.  Tissue paper crinkled under
them as he buried himself in Katie's sweet, hot depths. 

Afterward, a sated and drowsy Katie slept.  Fox put 
on his undershorts and trousers and went into the 
sitting room, carefully pulling the bedroom door closed
behind him.

It was time to grow up and take responsibility for 
what he believed in.  With a deep breath, he picked
up the phone on the desk.  When Edgar answered, Fox
asked to speak with his mother.

"Hello, Mother.  Did you enjoy your holiday?" 

"Very much, dear.  Newport is always such a lovely
change from New York.  We missed you, though.  How
is the lodge?"

"The lodge was wonderful."

"Fox, dear, where are you?" she asked, her voice 
sounding puzzled through the phone line.

"I'm in New York, Mother, at the Plaza Hotel."

"The Plaza?  I don't understand--are you coming 
home, dear?"

"Soon, Mother.  Will Father be home tonight?"

"Of course, Fox.  He'll be home by seven as always."

"Good, good," Fox said.  "I'll see you for dinner.  
And, Mother--I'm going to bring the surprise I told 
you about.  Have Edgar set another place at dinner."

He sat at the desk, scratching his chin.  While he
had no doubt that his parents would come to love 
Katie, he was under no illusions that he and Katie
would be sailing some rough waters tonight. 

When he peeked into the bedroom, he saw that Katie 
continued to sleep deeply.  Fox had to wake her so she
could bathe and dress for dinner.

His hands shook as he fastened the buttons on his 
shirt.  Katie seemed tense as well, taking far 
longer than usual to arrange her hair.  She looked
fetching, though, in a rose dress adorned with   
layer after layer of chiffon ruffles.  

"I can't reach to close this," Katie said, real
distress in her voice.

"I'll do it."  Fox hurried around to help hook the
back of Katie's dress, fumbling against the minute
loops.  He'd have to ask Edgar to see about engaging a
lady's maid.  Hiring the rest of the staff could wait
until they were settled in their new home.

"I'll have to alter it to make it easier," Katie said.
"It's a beautiful dress, but I can't imagine how I'm
supposed to put it on by myself."

"I don't understand how anyone can manage these tiny
hooks," Fox complained. 

"Poor Mulder," Katie said.  "You're nervous."

"There," said Fox, nudging the final hook in place. 
"Finally."

"Thank you.  Now let me fix your sleeves."

He held out his arms and Katie fastened his cuffs.

"Do you think your parents are just as nervous as we
are?" Katie asked.

"No doubt my mother has worked herself into a frenzy,
but I assure you, nothing ruffles my father."

"Not even meeting his new working-class daughter-in-law?"

Mulder gulped, involuntarily.  The Chief didn't know
about the marriage, unless DT had told him.  

"Mulder?"  Katie's eyes bored through him.  "How did
your parents react when you told them we were
married?"

"I, er, thought I'd surprise them," he stammered.  His
plan now seemed ill-advised at best.

Katie's look was definitely critical.

"I don't think that was fair to them.  Or to me."

"I see that now," he said.  God, he felt like a worm.

"Get your coat on."  Katie sounded determined.  Fox
could only marvel at her strength of character, and
hope she had enough for both of them.

"I'll call for the car," he said, adjusting his lapel.
"Or would you like to walk?"

"Not in these new shoes," she said, extending one slim
foot clad in a delicate silver pump.  "I don't think 
they were meant for walking."  

He knew he had disappointed her, but it was when he
realized that he had hurt her as well that he felt the
full force of his remorse.  She was sitting beside him
as he drove the Pierce Arrow to his father's house,
when she turned to him.

"I've always been able to hold my head up.  Even when
I lost my position at the settlement house, and then
when I had to face my family . . .  I couldn't bear it
if you felt ashamed of me, Mulder."

"I'm not, Katie.  I never could be," he said.  

"I couldn't bear it, Mulder, and I wouldn't bear it."

"I love you," he said.  "I love you desperately,
deeply and completely."

"I love you too, Mulder.  But that's the easy part."

He didn't ask her to explain because he understood. 
He swore to himself that he would become the man that
she deserved.  Everything about her called out to
what was best in himself, urging him to forswear what
was weak or shallow.  Maybe that was what drew him to
her from their first meeting

He parked the car in front of the house, walking
around to open Katie's door and take her arm.

Katie's face was pale as she looked up at his old
home.

"I should have taken you here before," he said.

"Holy Mary," she whispered.  

All six stories of the brownstone's bricks glowed 
warm in the waning sunlight of the early evening. 
Because the home was smaller than some of the other
mansions on Fifth Avenue, Fox often forgot how 
imposing it really was.  

He guided her up the steps and saw her eyes widen
again when Edgar swung open the door.

"Please see to my motorcar," Fox said, and Edgar 
nodded.

"Fox?"  His given name sounded foreign on her lips. 
"Aren't you going to introduce us?"

"It's Edgar, the butler,"  he said in a sideways
whisper.  He thought that was explanation enough, 
but he was quite wrong.

Katie stuck out her hand.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Edgar.  I'm Katie Scully."

Edgar's training prepared him to meet any challenge
with aplomb, and gravely he shook Katie's hand.

"Your parents are waiting in the drawing room," he
told Fox.

"Did I do something wrong?" Katie asked as he led her
through the house.

After a furtive look to see that no one was observing,
he pulled her close and planted a quick kiss on her
lips.

"You gave the wrong name, Katie Mulder."

"I haven't fully made up my mind."

"Don't say that," Fox begged her.

"I haven't decided if I'll change my name," she
explained.  

It was a jolt to his already jangled nerves, but he
put it aside for the present.

"Father's in a devilish mood," he noted when they were
almost to the drawing room.

"I don't hear anything," Katie said.

"Smell that cigar?  If he's smoking in the drawing
room, it means he's in such a foul temper that Mother
chooses not to object."

Then entered the formally appointed room, where Mother
and Father sat in silence.  Father's face was red,
most especially his nose, and Fox knew he'd been
drinking more heavily than he should.  Mother's smile
looked brave and strained as she rose to greet them.

Fox held Katie's hand tightly.

"Mother, Father, I'd like you to meet Katie.  My
wife."

Mother stopped in mid step.

"My wife, Katie."  The words sounded beautiful to him,
and the resonance of his own voice made his doubts
disappear.  "Katie, this is my mother."

"I'm so very happy to meet you, Mrs. Mulder.  I
realize this must be a shock," Katie said.

"A little," Mother allowed, breathlessly.  "But we're
so very happy for both of you.  Isn't that right,
William?"

Father was slowly getting to his feet.

"So this is the wonderful surprise," he said hoarsely.
 
"Your father was hoping you'd sold those foreign
bonds," Mother explained.

"Teena!" Father rebuked her.  "Let's not bore our
guest with business talk."

"I'm honored to meet you, Mr. Mulder," Katie said.  

"I'm honored as well.  I'm flattered that my only son
would allow me to meet his wife."

"William," Mother said, in a soft-spoken threat.

"I'm so sorry you weren't at our wedding," Katie said.

"My decision," Fox put in hurriedly.  "My error."

"Sometimes I wonder why I keep Skinner on the payroll
at all," Father muttered.

"Well now, shall we go in to dinner?  Katie, I hope
you like chateaubriand."

"I'm sure I will," said Katie. 

"It's beef," Fox whispered in her ear.  

The dining room, with its heavy drapery and formal
table setting, had never felt as austere as it did 
tonight.  William Mulder's eyes never left his son's 
face as he ignored his turtle soup and drank his
bourdeaux.

"Tell us about your family, dear," Teena Mulder said.

"I'm not sure where to start," Katie said.  Her hands
were folded in her lap as Edgar removed her soup plate.
"My father passed away a few years ago.  My mother runs
the boarding house they owned."

William Mulder downed the last of his wine. He motioned to 
the footman to refill his glass with an impatient wave.  

"Katie's father was a sea captain," Fox offered.  

"It was a fishing boat, actually.  Though he was awfully
proud of it."

"I'm sure he was," Teena said.  "And the rest of the 
family?"

"I have two brothers and a sister.  My sister has two
little boys."

"That's lovely dear.  What a blessing for your mother.
It sounds like you are a close family."

"Yes, I suppose we are.  My father was gone for days at
a time, so we needed to take care of each other."

Edgar and the footman served the chateaubriand, and
the conversation lulled.  Tension hung in the air like
a fine mist.

"This is delicious," Katie said.  

"Cook always does a fine job."  Teena took a small bite
of her meat.   "Fox, I don't believe you told us how you
met Katie."

"One day, when I was out taking photographs, I...er...got
hurt.  Katie patched me up.   Did I tell you she's a nurse?"

"Oh, my, how interesting," Teena said.  "I've always 
admired Miss Nightingale for her noble work.  My dear, 
your given name...is it Kathleen?"

"It's Katherine," Katie replied.

"Oh good," Teena said.   "If you don't mind, I think I'll 
call you Katherine.  We have a maid named Katie and I think 
it might become a little...confusing."

Katie barely touched her food, and Fox smiled inwardly as
he thought about the size of the room service order they'd
probably be placing later.   The discussion limped along
until Teena suggested they take their coffee in the 
drawing room.

"You ladies go ahead," William said, rising from
his seat.  "Fox will join me in the study for some
brandy."

Fox stood, his knees threatening to buckle at any moment.  
Katie looked up at him with worry in her eyes.  He 
offered her a brave smile, though he was feeling anything 
but brave.  He patted her hand before following his father 
out of the room.

Bill Mulder closed the door after Fox as they entered
the study.  He poured two generous brandies, taking a
deep swallow before speaking.

"What were you thinking, Fox?  What in the name of God
Almighty were you thinking?"

Fox's grip on his snifter was so tight, he feared he'd
snap the stem.  He set it down on the table before he
did damage.

"I was thinking she was the most wonderful person I'd
ever met."

"As usual, you were thinking with your dick and not 
your head," Bill choked out a bitter laugh.  "She's 
comely.  I'll give you that.  Certainly an improvement
over your usual little tarts.  I've never interfered 
with your affairs, Fox.  I know all about house you 
rent for that showgirl."

"Katie is not some showgirl.  She's the finest person 
I know."

"You can rut with any bitch you want, son, I don't
care," William said, his face almost purple with rage.  
"But you don't marry them, you damn fool!"

"I won't have you speak of my wife that way," Fox
said, his hands clutched into fists at his side.

"Who knows about this sham?" his father asked.  Cold 
dread crept up Fox's back as he realized where his 
father was headed.   "Who'd you tell, Fox?"

"Uncle Dewitt knows.  And Walter Skinner."

"Traut has a solid head for business.  He'll keep his 
mouth shut.  Should have known Skinner would be in on 
this.  He won't be a problem--not if he wants to keep 
receiving his salary."

"Katie's family knows, Father, and you don't control 
them."  

"Don't be dense.  A few dollars is a fortune to
these people.  They won't give us any trouble."

"You don't control me either."

"Shut up, Fox, before I shut you up.  I can take
care of this without your cooperation.  The girl used
false pretenses, or there's some irregularity in the
license.  The marriage won't hold if I want it to
fall."

"Father, you don't even know her.  She's everything
you hold high.  Intelligent, courageous, efficient--"

"You've given me a blazing headache.  I won't have you
stand here in my house and defy me!"  Father's face
had gone from red to purple.  For all his life Fox had
seen him as a titan to be admired and appeased, but
suddenly he was revealed as a willful tyrant.  

"Then I will leave your house," Fox said coldly.  All
fear of his father was gone, washed away by the anger.

Father looked stunned, almost blank with surprise. 
Fox turned and walked away.

As he reached the doorway he heard a crash, then a
heavy thump.  For a split second he thought his father
had broken into an actual tantrum, knocking down
furniture in his rage.  But even before he turned
around to look, he realized the truth.

William Mulder had collapsed onto the floor.  Fox
rushed to his side.

"Father!"

His father stared up at him, fear in his eyes.  His
mouth hung open and all his features seemed soft and
blubbery. 

Fox rubbed his cheek briskly, trying to bring him back
to himself.

"Father!  Are you all right?"

The only reply was a gurgling grunt from deep in the
throat, but Fox couldn't be sure if his father was
trying to speak or merely trying to breathe.

Unwilling to leave the room to summon help, Fox pulled
the cord to call for a maid.

"Please ask my wife to come in here," he told her. 
"My father appears to be ill."

************************ 

William Mulder had been felled by a massive stroke.

In the weeks to come, Mother would praise him for
keeping his head and managing the crisis, but he knew
that was nonsense.  It was Katie who handled
everything.

Under her direction, Father was carried to his bedroom
and the doctor was summoned.  Dr. Wieder arrived
promptly and disappeared into the bedroom.

Fox's only task that evening was to sit with Mother in
the drawing room, patting her hand and urging her to
stay calm.

Dr. Wieder looked solemn when he joined them.

"He has suffered a major stroke.  There's little I can
do," the doctor informed them.

"But he'll be all right, won't he?" Mother asked.

"We can hope and pray for the best, but the outlook, I
fear, is very poor."

"Perhaps he'll listen to you now.  Give up those nasty
cigars and stop his overeating.  Take regular
exercise," Mother said.

"We will try to make him comfortable," the doctor
said.

"How long?" Fox asked.

"That's difficult to predict.  If he survives the
night, he may hold on for a few weeks."

"You don't understand, doctor.  My son has gotten
married.  My daughter is . . . gone.  William must
recover, he simply has to," Mother said.

"I've known Fox since he was a lad.  He will always be
there for you, Mrs. Mulder.  I'll give you a draught 
so that you can rest tonight."

Fox rang for the maid to help Mother to bed, then
followed Dr. Wieder to the door.

"We were arguing, just before he was stricken," Fox
confided.

"I see," said the doctor.  "And you wondered if you
might be to blame."

"He was very angry."

"Fox, your father has suffered from high blood
pressure for the last ten years.  I warned him what
might happen, but he's a man who must have his own
way.  You didn't cause this calamity."

Fox grasped the doctor's words as a drowning man might
grasp a slender reed.  He was desperate for the
reassurance, but doubtful it could support the weight
of his guilt.

"Can he speak?" Fox asked.

"I don't think he will ever speak again.  He's very
weak and partly paralyzed.  With constant care he
might hold out for a week or two, perhaps a month."

"Will you be sending us a nurse?" Dr. Wieder had made
such arrangements in the past, in less dire
circumstances.  A stern hawk-nosed woman had seen Fox
and his sister through the chicken pox, and a jolly
Valkyrie had tended them through the misery of the 
measles.

"Certainly, if you'd like.  But the nurse you've
engaged is more than capable."

"My wife, Katie," Fox said proudly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"My wife is a trained nurse and highly capable, but I
want to hire another woman to assume my father's
care."

"Well.  Congratulations."  Dr. Wieder recovered from
his surprise.  "I'll send someone around in the
morning."

"Tonight, if you don't mind.  My wife needs her rest."

Fox returned to his father's room after Dr. Wieder 
left.  William Mulder lay ensconced in his bed, with 
its massive, carved headboard, and heavy damask
hangings.  Fox thought his father looked much like 
a king lying in state.  But Father was still alive, 
even if only barely.

Katie sat on a straight-backed chair that Edgar had
brought in for her.  She must have been tired, but 
her impeccable posture belied no trace of that.

"How is he?" Fox asked quietly.  

"About the same," she answered.  She looked up at
him, her gentle eyes shining with love.  Katie
took his hand, bringing it to her lips.  "I'm so
sorry about your father, Mulder."

"Thank you," he said, his voice choking with
emotion.  In his whole life, Fox was certain that
no one had ever cared this much about him.  

Fox placed another chair next to Katie's and they
sat and watched Father struggle with each
breath.  From time to time, Katie would lean over
and take her patient's pulse, or wipe some drool
from the corner of his mouth.  

It was well past midnight when Edgar knocked on
the door and escorted a dark-haired young woman into 
the room.  Katie stood, one hand at the small of her 
back.  

"Rebecca Waite, ma'am, sir," the woman said, nodding
at Katie and Fox.  

Katie filled Nurse Waite in on William's current condition
and showed her the bathroom where she could wash up.

"You need to be in bed," Fox said, sliding an arm
around Katie's waist.  

"I'm fine," she said, but her yawn couldn't be 
denied.  

"Yes, I'm sure," Fox replied, smiling.  She didn't
fight him, though, as he led her out of the room.

"Your poor father," she said as they walked down the
hall.  "An Irish fisherman's daughter can't have been 
what he had in mind as a wife for his only son.  
Mulder...did you...did you tell your father about the 
baby?" Katie asked as they stood in the hall outside
his bedroom. 

"I never had the chance.  My mother doesn't know yet
either.  Katie, I don't want you to worry about this.
My father is a stubborn man, but I know he would grow 
to love you."
 
She turned into his arms, burying her face against his
chest.  "I'm so sorry," she whispered.

"Come on," he said, opening the door.  "You need to get
some rest."

Edgar had thoughtfully had the maid turn down the
bed, and a dressing gown and nightdress were folded
on the coverlet.  

Fox helped Katie undress and slipped off her delicate
silver shoes.  

"You're every bit as tired as I am, Mulder," Katie 
said as her head emerged from the nightgown's neck.

"I'm not expecting a baby."  He held the covers so
she could slip between the sheets.  

"You need to rest," she said, gently taking his 
hand.  "The next days are going to be very difficult."

The bed certainly looked inviting, but Fox wanted
to check in on his mother.  "I know.  I'll be back
soon." 

When no comment came back at him, Fox took a good
look at his wife.  Poor Katie, Fox thought, must
have been far more tired than she would admit.  
She'd fallen asleep as soon as her head had rested 
upon the pillow.   Carefully, he slipped out of the
room and closed the door behind him.  He made his way
downstairs and knocked gently on his mother's door.

"Oh Mr. Fox," his mother's maid said as she opened
the door.  "Is good thing that you are here.  I cannot
get your mama to take the medicine."

"Thank you, Gretchen," he said, following the maid into
the room.  "I'll do my best."

Gretchen had managed to get his mother into bed, but 
Teena Mulder was too agitated to relax and sat upright 
against a bank of pillows.  She clutched a lace 
handkerchief in her hands.

Fox hadn't been inside this room since he was a young 
child.   He remembered being led to his mother's bed
when he was small, to see his baby sister for the first
time.  The tiny, red-faced infant in his mother's arms
was a far cry from the playmate he'd hoped for.  It
would be years before she would become his best friend.

"Fox?"  His mother's voice was more tremulous than he
could ever remember hearing it. 

"Yes, Mother," Fox said, sitting beside his mother.  
"Gretchen tells me you won't take the draught that 
Dr. Wieder sent over for you."

"I can't sleep now, dear. You know how something like
this can throw a household into discomposure." 
 
"Dr. Wieder sent over a very capable nurse.  Father 
is in good hands."

"What are we going to do, Fox?  What if your father
doesn't recover?  I don't think I can face that
possibility."

"Mother, it's no longer in our hands.  Father is very
ill.  We have to prepare ourselves."      

"Fox, you mustn't talk like that.  We have to keep
hope."

"We can always have hope, Mother.  But right now, you
need to rest.  Please, won't you take the medicine?"

"Will you stay with me until I fall asleep?" she asked.

"Certainly, Mother," he answered, motioning for Gretchen
to bring the draught.  His mother grimaced at the taste,
but drank it down.  With a sigh, she sank back against
the pillows. 

Fox turned out the bedside light.  He listened as Gretchen
moved quietly around the room, switching off lamps and 
tidying things.  Finally, she slipped out, closing the
door behind her.  

It seemed odd to sit there, watching his mother drift off
to sleep.  Fox couldn't remember one occasion when his
mother had tucked him in, or sang him a song at bedtime.
A governess had always performed those rituals.  

Fresh from their baths and wearing their dressing gowns, 
he and Samantha would be brought in to say goodnight to 
their mother and father.  Teena would often be preparing 
to go out for the evening and he remembered how elegant 
she would look, sitting at her dressing table and putting 
on her jewels.   

Fox looked down at his mother now, as her breathing 
evened out and her face relaxed.  He leaned over to press
a kiss to her cheek and left the room.

Walter Skinner was waiting for him in the hallway when
he emerged from his mother's room. 

"Mulder, I'm sorry about your father," he said, his
voice low.  "Edgar told me when I got home.  I'd...I'd
been out for the evening.  Thought it best to give you 
some time alone with your parents."

Fox nodded and stifled a smile.  It wasn't tact that
had propelled Skinner out the door this evening.  More
likely, he hadn't wanted to be around for the fireworks.

"Thank you."

"What can I do to help?" Skinner asked.

"There's nothing right now.  The nurse is seeing to Father.
My mother and Katie are asleep.  There will, no doubt, be
plenty to do over the next few days, though.  I'll let 
you know."

They walked up to their rooms on the third floor.  Skinner 
extended his hand and Fox shook it.  The man seemed genuinely 
concerned as he turned and went into his own room.

Fox entered his bedroom and stripped off his clothes.  Too
tired to see if there were any pajamas in his dresser, he 
climbed into bed next to Katie wearing only his underclothes.  
She turned to him in her sleep, moving closer as if sensing
his presence.  It occurred to him, as Katie entangled her 
arms and legs with his, that he'd never in his life felt 
such comfort and acceptance.

He woke alone in his bed.  Wearing her rose chiffon gown,
Katie stood before the mirror, coiling her long hair into 
a bun at the back of her head.

"Good morning," he said, sleepily.   

"Mulder, you were up so late.  Go back to sleep."

He swung his long legs out of bed and sat up.

"Are you hungry?" he asked.

"Starving.  But I want to check on your father."

He dressed hastily in the clothes he'd discarded only
hours earlier.  He finished buttoning his trousers as
she placed the final hairpin.

"You look beautiful," he said, and they kissed in
front of the oak-framed mirror.
 
When they entered the bedroom, Fox was shocked anew by
his father's appearance.  He lay propped on his side,
and while his breathing sounded less labored than
before, his slumber seemed unnaturally deep.

"He was restless much of the night," Nurse Waite
informed them.

"We'll let him sleep," Fox said hastily.  

"Go start your breakfast," Katie said.  "I'll join you
shortly."

He escaped to the dining room, where a footman poured
him a welcome cup of coffee.  Fox wondered for a
minute if he and his bride might possibly take their
meal in the kitchen, but to what purpose?  The
servants would be alarmed and his mother would be
scandalized.  

It was a comfort when Cook approached him at the
table.  Predictably, she clucked sympathetically about
his poor father and exhorted Fox to eat more, before
he vanished entirely.  He gave the expected answers,
but her next statement took him quite by surprise.

"For Mrs. Fox, I'll see that she gets the heels."

"I'm sure you'll explain," he said.  Years of service
had earned the old woman a certain degree of
indulgence.

"For a boy, she must eat the heel of the loaf, the
crusty ends.  And never any cantaloupe, which makes
for a long labor."

Fox frowned to himself.  If Cook knew, the entire
staff must be a-buzz.  Servants were unobtrusive and 
useful, but one had to remember they had sharp eyes, 
big ears and, sometimes, bigger mouths.

"Cantaloupe," he said, as blandly as he could.

"Makes the head grow large.  A first baby should have
a little head."

"Oh," was all he could manage.  Poor, poor Katie.  "No
cantaloupe, then.  Nor any melon."

Cook nodded.

"I'll see to that.  Try not to worry, Mr. Fox.  Babies
are a blessing, whenever they arrive, and first babies
are usually early."

Katie joined him at table, puzzlement on her face 
at the two bread heels on her plate.  With a shrug,
she buttered one and stirred cream into her coffee.
 
"We need some of our things, Mulder," she said.
"We look a little silly in evening clothes."

"I'll call the hotel right after breakfast," he 
answered.  "I have to telephone Uncle Dewitt and
tell him about Father."

After they finished their meal, Katie went upstairs
to relieve Nurse Waite for a few hours.  Fox did as 
he said and phoned the Plaza to have some of their
clothes sent over.  

The next phone call was far more difficult.

"How ghastly," Dewitt Traut said when Fox told
him that Bill Mulder was gravely ill.  "Your 
poor mother must be distraught."

"She's very upset, yes." 

"You need to come to the office, Fox, as soon as
you can.  We must discuss how your father's illness 
is to be handled."

Fox agreed and hung up the phone.  His father's 
stroke could throw the business into turmoil and
that could have far-reaching economic impact.
He looked down at his evening clothes.  He'd have
to change or risk alarming the staff.  

Fox went up to his room, finding a few of his
clothes still in his closet.  He changed and went
down to Mulder & Traut.

From the moment Fox stepped through the door it was
clear that Father's illness was still a secret.  The
atmosphere was brisk and energetic, without a whisper
of apprehension.

"Your presence here will go a long way to reassuring
our clients and associates," DT said, when Fox settled
himself in the visitor's chair.

"I'm not my father," Fox said, wearily.

"No, you're not.  But you're a skilled financier with
uncanny instincts."  Traut smiled.  "Or uncanny luck."

"And more important, I have his name."

"It must be a great consolation to your father, ill as
he is, to know the firm will continue to abide by the
standards he set."

"I know you would have it no other way."  

The steady tempo of compliments and cliches was almost
mesmerizing.  Fox tried to listen carefully, because
sometimes  DT would use a joke or nuance to convey a
world of information.

"You'll take his place, Fox.  There's no other man for
the job."

No other man named Mulder, Fox thought.

"I'm honored by your confidence, Uncle." 

"You know, I started this firm with your father,
before you were born. "

Fox nodded, trying not to fidget.  

"Do you know how Wall Street got that name?" Traut
asked.

"There was a wall there.  Before you were born."

"A wall," Traut confirmed.  "That was the lower border
of old New Amsterdam, and the Dutch constructed a wall
to keep out the English."

While DT mulled ancient history, Father could be
slipping away.  And Katie must be starving by now. 
Fox rose from his chair.

"Thank you for the history lesson.  I'll be sure to
sound the alarm if I spy any redcoats trying to breach
our defenses."

"I want you to understand that your place is here, in
the firm that shares your name, where you're
appreciated and where we pursue the blessings of the
marketplace, but never at the expense of the greater
good."

Now that DT's ramblings had coalesced into a warning,
Fox thought of their earlier conversation, and the
gray-haired man who was never without a cigarette.

"Does this have something to do with the man we saw
talking to Diana Fowley?"

"Have you seen him since then?"

"Answer my question!" Fox's patience was gone. 

"Men like  your  father, myself, Andrew Carnegie, JP
Morgan--we understand that the power to move money is
the power to move men, to move nations. Teddy 
Roosevelt called us the 'malefactors of great
wealth,' but that was unfair. We recognize our duty 
to our country and her citizens."

"But the man with the cigarettes does not," Fox
posited.  

"He holds himself greater than his country, greater
than the Almighty himself."

Fox remembered several occasions when Mulder & Traut
had declined involvement in lucrative but questionable
bond issues.  A banker of no scruples could realize
fabulous profits, if he had the wherewithal.

"Which is his bank?" Fox asked.  It couldn't be any of
the American or English firms, or Fox would have been
aware of the man.  Perhaps a Swiss or German
establishment.

"When he requires capital, it is there."

"If you truly see me as joining you at the helm one
day, as your equal, you will dispense with your
riddles and tell me what I need to know."

DT leaned forward.

"The man with the cigarettes is not a banker, per se. 
He deals in money, but also in men.  He deals in
currency, but also in lies, threats and bribery.  And
death."

Fox heard many things in Traut's voice.  Fear,
indignation--even respect.  But something else he
heard was far more troubling.

"This malefactor who traffics in blood and bribes. . .
You seem to know him very well, Uncle Dewitt."

"Son, a man doesn't climb to the very top of the hill
without getting some mud on his soles.  Your father
and I made that climb, but you don't have to.  And by
happy chance or divine design, you have the
intelligence and moral fiber for the position you were
born to."

"You are generous with your praise, Uncle, but most
parsimonious with your information."

"Fox, the captain of the ship must have his eyes on
the horizon, and his hands on the wheel.  Leave it to
others to see that the furnaces are stoked and the
crew is fed."

"I'd better see if I can find my desk under the pile
of work that must have accumulated while I was away,"
Fox said, rising from his chair.  He couldn't help but 
reflect that DT's description of the ship's captain 
sounded more like its figurehead.

Fox made his way to his office.  Just as he'd thought,
his desk was a sea of papers, the "inbox" over-flowing
with files.  

"Good to have you back, sir," Morris Fletcher said from
the doorway.  "You've certainly been missed.   It must
be so nice to get away on such a well-deserved vacation."

"Yes," Fox answered.  He had no intention of sharing the
reason for his vacation with Fletcher.  The man would
have a field day with comments about honeymooners never
leaving their rooms.  "I'm sure you have things to do,
Fletcher.   Shut the door on your way out, and go do 
them."

When he was alone, Fox placed a phone call home.  As
he waited for Katie to be called to the telephone, he
stifled a yawn.    

Warmth flooded through him at the sound of her voice
when she spoke.  His father's condition was unchanged,
which his mother took as a good sign.  Katie urged him
to take care of his work, but he suspected she would
be glad to see him when he arrived home.

He hung up the phone and began to sort through the 
various stacks of prospectuses, phone messages and 
file folders.  A sharp knock at the door interrupted 
his work.

"I'll let you know if I need you, Fletcher," he called 
out. 

"It's me," Skinner said, through the door.  

"Come."

"Sounds like you're having a tough time of it," 
Skinner said.  

"No more than usual," Fox said, passing a tired hand
in front of his face.  "What brings you down here?"

"Your attorney called after you left this morning.  
He said the papers were ready for your investment 
with the Little Dynamo partners."

"Oh, yes," Fox said, brightening.  

"I took the liberty of picking up the paperwork..."

"Good, thank you," Fox said.    

"There's more.  Let's take a walk." 

Though puzzled, Fox nodded and followed Skinner out of 
the building.  They walked quickly through the streets 
with Skinner leading the way.  Finally, they ran out 
of street and arrived at the Battery.

"I assume you have an explanation for this forced march,"
Fox said gently as they sat on a bench.  The ocean air
stirred his hair.  Skinner had no such problem.

"When Mr. Leamus showed me the paperwork, to indicate
where you needed to sign, I noticed something."

"Skinner?  What on earth are you getting at."

"Look at the signatures," Skinner said, unfolding the
stiff papers and spreading then out on the bench between
them.

Fox raised the papers, the sunlight hitting the names 
lined up like soldiers.  John F. Byers.  Ringo Langly.  
Melvin Frohike.  Fox traced a finger along the fourth 
signature.

"Sean Pendrell," he said aloud.  "Oh my God."

Sean Pendrell.  The boy his sister had run off with 
all those years ago--an inventor.  Not only that, but 
an inventor he'd almost met face to face weeks ago.  

"I thought you'd be interested in that name."

"I came close to meeting him," Fox said.  "The day I was
going to drive out with Byers, I got a call from Leamus.  
I thought he had Katie in his office.  Turns out it was 
Sheila Fontaine.  If only I'd gone with Byers..."

"Pendrell may know where your sister is, Mulder.  We could 
get her back."

"No.  It's too late to drag her home like a recalcitrant
child.  She'll have to come on her own.  Could you...could
you get in touch with Pendrell?  Send word to my sister
that Father is very ill."

"I'll get right on it," Skinner said.  The two men separated,
with Fox returning to the office and Skinner heading to the
hardware store on Canal Street.

The rest of the day passed in a blur.  Fox left the office
early, unable to concentrate as thoughts of his sister flooded
his mind.  Memories of the little brown-haired pest scattering
his toy soldiers, the stunning young woman she'd grown into,
who charmed everyone she encountered.  

Fox had missed her so desperately when she disappeared.  
Growing up, it had felt as if Samantha was the only one who 
truly cared about him.  For so many years, he'd worried about 
her and searched for her.  But now, knowing she was almost 
within reach, he felt strangely numb.

Once home, Fox guarded his news.  His mother would be crushed
if Samantha failed to materialize.  Later that night, lying 
with Katie in his bed, he told her the whole story.    

"So, she may still be with this boy," Katie said as trailed
her fingers over his bare chest.  "Do you think she'll come 
back?"

"I don't know," Fox said, yawning.  He covered her hand with
his own, trapping it against his skin.  "I guess it's all up
to Samantha now."

Days passed and Fox began to doubt his sister would see their 
father before he died.  William Mulder was mute, his brown 
eyes signaling fear.  His breathing was labored, sounding 
like chains rattling over wood.  Katie said Father might 
live for a few weeks, but Fox suspected she thought it might 
be far shorter.

At times, Fox was sure his mother understood how dire her
husband's situation was.  Worry lines had set in around her
mouth and she ruined several handkerchieves, twisting 
them so forcefully in her fingers that the fabric simply
gave out.

Dr. Wieder saw his father every evening when his office
closed.  There was little he could do, but with a man as
wealthy and important as William Mulder, every effort would
be made.  The doctor prescribed whatever medications he 
could to keep Father comfortable.

Just when Fox thought she was preparing herself for the
inevitable, Teena would say something like "we must have
a party to celebrate your marriage when your father is 
well again," and his heart would break.

Katie was the glue that held him together during those
days.  Her quiet confidence was a beacon in the dark
night, not only for him, but for everyone in the household.

William Mulder seemed calmer when Katie was with him.  His
eyes were less desperate and even his breathing improved.
His mother appeared to be growing fonder of Katie, looking
to her for comfort and reassurance.  No matter how bleak
life was in the Mulder house, Fox was happy to see that.

Each day he went to the office in the morning.  The staff
had been told that the Chief was ill, but no details were
given.  Most of the employees apparently assumed William
Mulder had a bad cold.  Fox tried to be productive; his
father would have been horrified if he'd been anything
less than industrious.

The Chief wouldn't have approved, but Fox left
the office at four o'clock.  He'd kept in touch during
the day, speaking with Edgar or Katie.  His father's
condition had not changed in any material way.

When he entered the house, Fox had a sense that something
had changed.  Edgar was not there to greet him, and soft
voices drifted down from the upper story.  Swallowing 
hard, he started up the steps.

The voices were more distinct as he reached the top of 
the stairs.  They came from Father's room--Katie's lilting 
alto and his mother's deeper tone.  Fox sighed with relief 
as he caught the sound of William Mulder's rattling wheeze.

Another voice came from within the room, but he couldn't 
quite place it.

"Fox, dear," his mother said, breathlessly, greeting him as 
he entered the room.  "You can't imagine what's happened."

Teena stepped aside, and he saw her.  Samantha.  His little
sister sat at their father's bedside, holding the stricken
man's hand.  Katie stood nearby, watching all of them with
tears in her eyes.

"Fox," his sister said, rising from her chair and crossing
to him. 

"I...I'm glad you came," he said.  She was as beautiful as
he remembered, but the flirtatious teenager had given way
to a poised and serious woman.  The dark curls that he
remembered cascading down her back had been tamed into a
neatly coiled hairstyle.  

"Fox."  Katie was at his elbow, her hand on his forearm.  
He'd been so engrossed in taking in the sight of his sister,
he hadn't felt his wife's approach.  "Your father has 
fallen asleep.  I'm going to try and get your mother to
rest, too.  Why don't you two go downstairs and visit."

There were many reasons Fox loved Katie--her beauty, her
strength, her generosity of spirit.   But at that moment,
the quality he most admired was her sensitivity.

He and Samantha did as they were told and went downstairs.
Fox let her lead the way, as she moved slowly through the
house.  They ended up in the kitchen, where Cook made a
fuss over her little lost lamb. 

They sat over mugs of coffee and biscuits, fresh from the 
oven.  

"You look so grown up," he said.  

"I am grown up, silly.  I'm married."

"You married Pendrell," he said.  Samantha nodded, her
eyes searching Fox's face as if doing so would tell her
what he was thinking.

"We'd been in love since we were children.  He...he saved 
me, Fox."

Fox wasn't sure why the news shocked him.   Was it because
he still saw Samantha as a little girl?  Or was it because
she'd married a servant.  He pushed the idea away.  Before
Samantha ran away, he'd barely noticed Pendrell as the boy 
went about his work.  Fox thought he'd known everything about
his sister, but he'd never known that Samantha had developed 
a relationship with Pendrell, and that bothered him more 
than he could say.   

"I'm sorry I wasn't here for you," he said.  "I came home
on the very next ship, but you'd already gone.  I always
thought that if I'd been here..."

"Fox, I don't think you'd have been able to change their
minds.  Father and Mother weren't to be reasoned with.  
They were blinded by Baron Von Strughold's title.  When
I found out they'd set a date for the wedding, I knew
I had to get away."

"Where did you go?" he asked.  "I searched for you. 
Did you know that?"

"We were like two children in the dark.  Sean didn't
have much experience beyond Fifth Avenue and I had
none.  But we made our way.  He's so smart, Fox.  He
knows how to fix things."

"If his electric starter invention is as big as I 
think it's going to be, Pendrell will be a very rich
man." 

"It's funny," she said.  "Sean said he had a wealthy
benefactor but he never mentioned your name.  I
had no idea you were the silent partner."

"Why didn't you ever contact me?" he asked, his 
voice thick with emotion.  Fox turned his head so
she wouldn't see the tears in his eyes.  "I missed 
you."

She touched his face, her fingers warm from the
coffee mug she'd been holding.  He turned to face
her.

"I missed you, too," she said.  "I didn't know you'd 
come home.  I was afraid you'd stayed in England and 
left me here to fend for myself.  Father said you'd 
never leave work over something as trivial as a young
girl's tears.  I think I was afraid to find out
he was right."

"Oh, Samantha.  I wish I could have made it all 
better."

"It got better," she said, gently.  "It looks like
it got better for you, too.  I like Katie very much.
She seems like a wonderful girl.  Tell me about her."

He spared nothing.  He told Samantha about his days
as Mathew Fox and his photography.  He told her about
taking Katie's picture one day and going to the
settlement house because he thought his sister might
be there.  He told her about falling in love with 
Katie and almost losing her and about finding her
again.

"We had no idea, did we?" Samantha murmured.  "There
was another world, just outside of our own."

"I felt that way too," Fox said.  He'd dined in Paris,
enjoyed Rossini at La Scala, but the first time in his
life that he'd felt like a foreigner was on Orchard
Street.  "Strange languages, strange foods.  So
dirty."

"So very dirty, and so hard to wash.  Shlepping water
up six flights of stairs and heating it on the 
stove..."

The Yiddish word seemed natural on his sister's lips,
or at least no stranger than the thought of her
carrying and heating her own bath water.

"We always had people to shlep for us," he said,
smiling.

"Fox, I didn't even know about shlepping.  The bed
always had clean linen, and platters of food arrived
at the table, and I gave it no more thought than the
hot water in the tub."

"It must have been a harsh education," he said. 
"You're a strong person."

"I had to be.  We couldn't go back, and there was no
food on the table unless we put it there.  And no
table, until Sean built one.  And that reminds me--I
must be going."  

"Stay," Fox said.  "Mother will be so disappointed if
you're not at dinner."

"I have to get back to Sean," she said.  "Besides,
he'll be bursting with curiosity.  He wondered how
you'd feel about financing the cad who stole your
sister."

"Bring him," he said, but Samantha laughed, and 
hugged him.

"That would be a...mistake.  Mother would be
uncomfortable, and Sean would be miserable."

"Please," he said.  "I don't want to lose you again."

"You won't.  You can't, silly.  You're my husband's
business partner."

"Very true.  And you can hardly refuse dinner with
your husband's business partner."

"Another time, Fox.  In a restaurant, perhaps."

"OK.  Or when Katie and I have a place of our own."

"I'd like that."  She smiled.  

The leave-taking was painful for Fox, although he kept
his tone light and even teased her about being a pest.
Finding her was like soothing balm on a long-open
wound, and it was an added comfort that she understood
the intricacies of traveling between the world of want
and the world of plenty.  But he couldn't help
wondering if the next time he saw his sister would be
for their father's funeral.

Dinner was a somber affair.  Fox felt exhausted after
his time with Samantha, and Mother frowned to herself,
clearly preoccupied.  

"You look tired, love," Katie told him quietly.

"You too."  

After the wild, idyllic passions of their honeymoon,
they had settled into quieter habits.  Many evenings
ended with a long soak in the tub and then to bed. 
Katie's whispers would tickle his ear and set the rest
of him on fire.  She would smother his outbursts with
kisses, or even with her own firm hand clamped over
his mouth.  She accused him of being a very noisy
lover, but he said she was to blame, for bringing him
more ecstasy than he could contain.

In any event Skinner had switched his room for
quarters on the fourth floor, which, he said, gave him
a better view of the park.

"You've barely touched your food," Katie said.

"Cook stuffed me full of pastry earlier," he
explained, noting with pleasure that his little wife
finished everything on her plate.  

"I'm concerned about your father's fever," Katie said,
her voice projecting to include Teena.

"A fever is nature's way of healing the body," Teena
answered, with considerable conviction.

"Is this. . . ?"  Fox couldn't make himself finish the
question, but he wondered if it could mean the end.

"It's worrisome," Katie confirmed.

"He's had fevers before," Teena said.  "But perhaps
you should check on him."

Fox had the urge to slap her.

"Mother--"

Katie cut off his objection, rising quickly.

"Thank you, Mrs. Mulder, that's a good suggestion. 
Please excuse me."

Fox stood as his wife left the table, choosing to wait
until she was gone before he reproached his mother. 
Before he could begin, Teena broached a different
subject.

"The Baron isn't kind," she said.

He almost interrupted to ask her what she was talking
about, and why he should be concerned.

"Baron Von Strughold, the gentleman who was Samantha's
fiance," she continued.  "He married the Brevoort's
youngest daughter and it's known everywhere that he 
beats her."

"My God," said Fox.  

"It almost makes me glad that Samantha was so
defiant."

"Almost?  When she escaped marriage to a brutal old
devil like that?"

"Fox, he's a baron.  And she did go against your
father and me."

"She's married to a fine young man with a very bright
future," Fox said.

"Yes, but--"

"We should have them to dinner.  We should tell
Samantha that next time she visits she must bring her
husband."

"Goodness, Fox.  Think about what you're saying."

"Think about what you're saying, Mother.  And think
about this:  Katie is my wife and I love her with all
my heart."

"Katherine is a sweet, lovely girl.  I was talking
about that boy, the butler's son."

Fox didn't have the energy to answer.  He excused
himself and went to find his wife.

That night in bed as he held her in his arms, he
couldn't help wishing they were back in the lodge,
where all that mattered was making each other happy.  

"Your father is a strong, strong man," Katie said. 
"His fever is down and he's able to take fluids
again."

"It's all thanks to you."

"It's not in my hands at all.  Be prepared, Mulder,
because I can still see only one ending."

Fox sighed.

"No one could take better care of him than you have."

She nuzzled against him, soft and warm, and when she
didn't answer, he knew she was asleep.  

He was first to awaken the next morning, and tried to
leave the bed without disturbing her.

"Mulder?"

"Please, Katie, go back to sleep."

But she yawned and stretched and got out of bed.

"I'll have breakfast with you.  I'll nap later if I'm
tired."

Mother didn't join them, but the dining room itself
seemed to resonate with her presence.

"You'd think my mother would be happy for Samantha."

"You have to be patient, Mulder.  I think she's
trying."

"Anyway, she likes you."

Katie patted his hand, but didn't answer.  Fox
wondered if there was something she wasn't saying.

"Katie, I won't abide anyone treating you with
disrespect, not even my mother.  Is there anything I
should know?"

"Your mother is very kind.  Don't trouble yourself,
Mulder, I haven't a bad word to say about her."

"Good."  He leaned over and kissed her before he rose
from the table.  "I'll call you from the office."

For the first week after Father's stroke Fox had
driven his car to work, but then he had resumed his
old habit of walking.   It seemed to provide some
relief from the demands of home and office, when his
thoughts could wander.

Mostly he thought about Katie, and the baby, and the
home they would share.  He composed portraits in his
head: a smiling Katie pushing a pram; a little boy on
a pony; a little girl in ruffles.  Katie seemed to
think he would prefer a son, but he truly did not
care.  

He thought about Father, too.  The Chief didn't speak,
but when Fox entered his room he would fix his son
with a stare that could drill through granite.  The
old man would nod from time to time as Fox recounted
the news from work.  Katie felt at ease with the
Chief, and he seemed to value her care and company,
but Fox dreaded his time in the sick room.

He couldn't help wishing that the inevitable would come
quickly, and he feared that Father could read it in
his face.  Fox dreamed of a future with Katie and
their child, but standing between the present and his
dream were two fearful events:  a birth and a death.  

With his mind so full, he didn't notice when a man
fell into step with him, puffing contentedly on a
cigarette.  Fox startled when he felt someone touch
his arm.

"Mr. Mulder.  I haven't seen you since your rather
public rejection of our mutual acquaintance Mrs.
Fowley."

"I'm sorry, I don't believe we've been introduced,"
Fox said curtly.

"But I'm sure your father and your dear Uncle Dewitt
told you all about me."  

"I want you to leave my wife alone."

"On that you may rest assured.  She is a lovely young
lady.  Not an obvious choice, but really far more
suitable than Mrs. Fowley."

The man strolled beside him, bland and amicable.  

"What do you want?" Fox asked, wishing DT had been
more informative.

"I believe I want many of the same things that you
want yourself.  For example, you seem to have a keen
interest in the plight of the poor.  A sympathy for
the working man, the emigrants, the factory girls."

"Then I hope you will find a way to fulfill your lofty
purposes."

"Congressman Mulder.  It has a certain allure, doesn't
it?"

Fox asked himself if the man might simply be insane,
but their previous encounters suggested otherwise.

"Congress would be the first step," the smoking man
continued smoothly.  "Congressman.  Governor. 
President."

"What?"  Fox could barely suppress his laughter.

"A Democrat has to carry the Southern vote, and a
Catholic wife will be a burden.  You'll run as a
Republican."

His mirth vanished and Fox felt a shiver.

"I have no interest in politics.  Do you hear me? 
Furthermore, if you every bother my wife again, or
discuss her, or even mention her, I'll knock you
down."

"Splendid.  You'll do very well."

The cigarette smoker turned and walked away, leaving
Fox to fume at his impertinence.

All day, Fox's thoughts kept returning to the strange
man.  There was something dark and disturbing about the
man, as pervasive as the cigarette smoke that circled
him.  Fox couldn't forget the worried look on Katie's 
face after the man had accosted her in the drugstore.

It was just past two o'clock when his apprehension got
the better of him and Fox left the office.  He walked
home at a purposeful pace, trying hard not to look over
his shoulder.

Dr. Wieder was with Father when Fox got home.  He emerged
from William's bedroom and spoke to Fox in the hallway.

"Your father has a fever.  Pneumonia is very common 
in cases such as his."  

With a gentle pat on Fox's arm, the doctor took his
leave.   Fox squared his shoulders and entered the
bedroom where he found Teena and Katie keeping vigil.
His father's breathing seemed much worse, even to 
Fox's untrained ear.

They took turns sitting by the bed that evening.  
Mother seemed to finally understand the severity of 
her husband's condition.  She held her husband's hand,
occasionally leaning over to whisper something into his
ear.

When Nurse Waite came on duty, Fox took the opportunity 
to urge his mother and Katie to rest.  Rebecca Waite 
promised to call them if there were any changes in the
patient.   

His mother wouldn't take the draught Dr. Wieder had 
prescribed, but she agreed to get into her bed.  Fox and 
Katie spent a restless night, both of them listening
for Nurse Waite's knock on the door. 

"I don't think I should go to the office," Fox said
when they rose in the morning. 

"That might be best," Katie agreed.  

Fox went down to breakfast, Katie joining him after a
brief visit to the bedside.   They ate in silence and
then climbed the stairs to Father's room.

"I never told him about the baby," Fox said.

"Tell him now."

As they sat by the bedside, Fox knew it would be an
empty gesture.  The invalid in the bed was scarcely
recognizable to him, and surely beyond hearing or
understanding.  

Katie leaned forward and took William's hand.

"Congratulations, Mr. Mulder, you're going to be a
grandfather," she said.

If she had hoped for some flicker of response, she
must have been disappointed, yet she continued.

"Your son is a kind, brilliant, courageous man, and I
love him very much.  I hope you've seen some of his
photographs, Mr. Mulder.  He finds things with his
camera that you don't see until he shows them to you. 
Did he ever tell you how he saved my brother's life? 
That's the kind of man he is, quick to do the right
thing, even at risk to himself."

"Katie, stop," Fox said.  It was pretense, for his
benefit, not the Chief's.  He was far from courageous;
he had yet to tell his mother about the baby.

"You are a brave man, Mulder.  I think the only thing
you're afraid of is hurting people."  Katie released
the old man's hand and reached for Fox's.

The Chief sighed loudly, a sad, gentle sigh that could
have meant anything but in fact meant nothing.  His
breathing had become bizarrely irregular, as if he was
trying to rest from the exertion.  Fox wanted to ask
how long he might endure, but was embarrassed to show
how he hoped for the end.

Mother joined them, and Fox relinquished his chair so
she could closer to her husband's head.  

"His breathing...?"  There was an edge of panic in
Teena's voice.

"He's comfortable, Mrs. Mulder," Katie said
reassuringly.

Fox had the same feeling, that his father wasn't
suffering, but he too was becoming unsettled.  The
Chief would take huge, rapid breaths, his whole body
moving with the effort, and then he would stop.  Fox
would barely breathe himself as he waited to see if
the fight was over, but then his father would gasp and
start the cycle again.

"William, stop it!  Don't do that!"  Mother clapped
his shoulder.

"It's all right, Mrs. Mulder," Katie said.

"He's holding his breath," Teena said angrily.  "Tell
him he mustn't do that."

William's breathing resumed with the heavy, deep
panting that was more upsetting to see than the
pauses.

Fox couldn't watch.

"I'll call Dr. Wieder," he said, and Katie nodded.  

Katie and his mother were talking quietly when he
returned.

"His body is shutting down, Fox.  He's leaving us,"
Teena said. 

"The noises the body makes are just empty sounds. 
They don't mean anything," said Katie.

"He'll be in heaven soon.  Maybe he's there even now,"
said Teena.   "We need to call Father Manning."

Fox stepped out of the room to inform Edgar, who had
been keeping watch out in the hallway.   

"Call Father Manning at Trinity," Fox said.  "Ask him
to hurry."

Father's last breath was a long, musical groan, a
quiet farewell for a man who had lived with so much 
sound and fury.  Fox held his own breath waiting for
the gasps to start again, but at last he understood
that it was over.

Dr. Wieder arrived, and Father Manning, and then 
Skinner was leading him out of the room and pressing 
a brandy snifter into his hand.
 
Fox held the snifter up, the brandy turning golden 
in the sunlight that streamed through the window.  
He remembered the night he'd fought with Father.  
No matter what Dr. Wieder had said or how Fox tried 
to ease his conscience, the fact was, he'd mishandled 
the situation.   

The next days passed in a blur.  New York society had 
rules for proper behavior under any circumstance, and
death was no exception.  Fox supposed the rules could 
be a comfort to the bereaved, but he found them 
oppressive.

The house was scrubbed and polished in anticipation of
New York's finest citizens paying their respects.  A 
black-trimmed mourning wreath was hung on the door and
special stationery edged in black was ordered.

One had to have proper mourning clothes.  Teena's 
dressmaker was called to the residence, measuring both
Teena and Katie for wardrobes of black.  Fox and 
Walter Skinner needed little in the way of new clothing
as both had plenty of dark suits.  Even the household
staff were outfitted with black armbands.

"Mulder, your mother ordered ten dresses for me," Katie 
had said at night in their room.  "It's such a waste--I
could have managed with one or two."

"You shouldn't have to 'manage' anymore, Katie," he
replied, pulling her into his arms.  "You deserve the
very best."

"I have the best," she said, gently pressing a kiss to
his mouth.  "Mulder, did you tell your mother about the
baby?"

"Er...not yet.   She was so upset over Father.  I wanted
to wait until things were a little more stable."

"Oh, Mulder," she said, sadly, and he was ashamed of his 
cowardice.  "The cat may be out of the bag, anyway.  The
seamstress gave me a very odd look when she took my
measurements."

"And you think she'll tell Mother."

"She won't?" 

"Not if she values Mother's patronage and that of the 
other society women.  But, I do see your point.  I've let
it go far too long."

When Fox told her the next morning, Teena received the 
news of her impending grandchild with muted happiness. 

"How lovely for you, dear," Mother said.  "This old 
house hasn't heard a baby's laughter in a long time."

His mother had never been a warm woman, and certainly
not a demonstrative one.  Grief didn't alter those
qualities, but Teena Mulder seemed almost passive in 
the wake of her husband's death.   

Fox was now the head of the household, a role he
felt ill-equipped to assume.  His mother leaned on  
him for more and more.  She asked him to handle everything
from the funeral arrangements to the firing of a
footman who'd been caught drinking on duty.  

His dream of living in a little house with Katie and
their child seemed more and more distant as Fox became
enmeshed in family responsibilities.   

It rained the day of William Mulder's funeral, and Fox
felt as if he himself was within a cloud.  He heard
nothing of the other eulogies, and when Father Manning 
introduced him, he made his way to the pulpit on legs 
that seemed strangely wooden.  He turned to address the 
mourners and his throat went dry when he spotted his 
sister and Pendrell at the rear of the church.

If there was one person in the world who might
understand what he was feeling today, it would have
been Samantha. It pained Fox that she hadn't found it
in herself to rejoin him for this occasion.

Fox delivered the remarks he'd prepared, which seemed
insufficient and insincere.  At last he was finished
and returned to his seat beside Katie.  Even in her
mourning clothes, she looked alive and vibrant, when
everything else looked dim and gray.

If Katie was his anchor, DT served as rudder, steering
both Fox and his mother through the maze of
dignitaries.  From time to time he heard Katie gasp as
DT introduced her to the eminent mourners.  She blushed
and could barely speak when Mayor McClellan shook her hand.  

Father would probably have taken it in stride, if he
had been able to see the crowd.  He'd have been pleased 
with J.P. Morgan and Charles Schwab's attendance and 
would have been happy to see Thomas Edison shuffle 
down the center aisle of Trinity Church. And how many 
men had both the present and former United States 
Presidents attend their funeral?  

In his lifetime Father had found no shortage of men
eager to do his bidding, and after death he garnered
dozens of honorary pall bearers, most of them too old
to perform the actual task.  It was of some comfort to
Fox that Skinner was allowed to share the burden, and,
of course, DT.  The other men were acquaintances, but
hardly friends.

Riding in the carriage behind the hearse, Fox wanted
to hug Katie to his heart, but instead sat beside her,
glad for her solid presence.  Without a word she took
his hand and placed it over her abdomen.  Beneath his
palm something stirred.

"Thank you," he whispered.  "Thank you for that."

If any of their friends were surprised at the existence
of a Mrs. Fox Mulder, they were too well-mannered to 
comment.  Her sudden appearance on the scene had been
explained away by DT as the result of a whirlwind 
courtship and secret engagement.  Fox was grateful to
Uncle Dewitt for smoothing their way.

In the weeks after the funeral, it became clear to
Fox that Mother needed his presence at the Fifth
Avenue home.  It wasn't just him--Teena clung to 
Katie in a dozen little ways.  She wouldn't take the
tonic Dr. Wieder had prescribed from anyone but Katie,
and no one else could persuade Mother to rest.

Teena Mulder hadn't asked them to stay, though she
managed to drop a few hints about how lonely the old
house would be if not for he and Katie. 
 
Fox knew Katie had her heart set on a small home of 
their own, but surely she could see that his mother 
needed them. 

"Mulder, do you remember when we talked about living
in a shoebox," Katie asked him one morning.

"I do.  I said I'd be happy with you anywhere."

"Our own little place.  With a darkroom, of course."

"A darkroom.  I haven't touched a camera in weeks."
 
She stroked his hair.   

"Your father's illness was an ordeal for you," she
said gently.

"And for my mother."

"Yes, for your mother too."
 
"Of course, finding just the right shoebox might take
some time," he said.

"I suppose it might.  Especially, for a shoebox near
the park." 
 
The next day, he had the rest of their things moved 
from the Plaza.
	
*********************************************
 

Forgive Us Our Trespasses - Katherine Mulder's story.  Part 16

"Katherine, my dear, Teena tells me you are a nurse," 
Harriet Cortlandt said.  "And that you met Fox when 
he was injured in an accident on the street."

"Yes," Katie replied, fighting a smile as she 
recalled Mulder's 'street accident' with Tom Colton's
fists.  "I suppose that's true."

"How very fortunate for you," Mrs. Cortlandt said,
smugly.  "Fox is quite a catch."

Her use of the present tense was not lost on Katie.
Mrs. Cortlandt had an unmarried daughter.  The fact
that Mulder thought Lillian Cortlandt was as interesting
as a bowl of porridge didn't enter in to her mother's
calculations.  Katie had stolen the prize, snatched
it from Miss Cortlandt's dainty hands, and that was
all that mattered.

In the weeks after William Mulder's death, many of the
Mulders' friends came to offer their condolences.  And
Teena had introduced her new daughter-in-law to the
visitors.   

The visits were uncomfortable for Katie.  The Mulders'
friends were always polite, but every word, every 
gesture, every breath they took, told Katie that she 
didn't fit in and would never be accepted.

Some of the guests would tell Katie how fond they were
of their Irish maids.  Others would expound that with
her nursing education, Katie was a credit to her kind. 

She had shared some stories with Mulder.  With a shrug
he told her that people were idiots, and that she
shouldn't feel obliged to mix with snobs on his
behalf.  Indeed, he took the lead in refusing
invitations, telling Katie he didn't want to waste 
his time or hers being bored.

But Katie didn't want anyone to think that she was
hiding from them.  Whatever Mulder said, she suspected
his professional endeavors would move more smoothly if
they at least made a show of following the rules.

As the weeks went by, her pregnancy progressed and 
became more apparent to the casual eye.  That was when
the real whispering and sly glances began.  Katie had
no doubt that trapping a wealthy man due to pregnancy
was somehow even more objectionable than merely marrying
above one's station.  

She'd chosen to accompany Teena today because the
luncheon was in support of the Rose McMillan Free 
Lending Library.  Though she and Teena were still 
in mourning, New York society always made allowances 
for good works. 

The women in attendance seemed indifferent about the 
benefits of a library to a community.  Everyone in the 
room, it seemed, was far more interested in Katie.  Many 
of them probably believed, as Mrs. Cortlandt did, that 
she had arrived in their midst through trickery.

"My husband will be flattered, I'm sure, to hear
himself described as a catch," Katie said, with a
forced smile.

"Oh, I have no doubt he fancies himself the hunter. 
Most men have no inkling that they've been snared in a
trap."  Mrs. Cortlandt's smile was just as bright.

Katie might have pointed out that Lillian Cortlandt
was perhaps unappealing as bait, but she felt it wiser
to comment that the man who found himself captured by
young Miss Cortlandt would be fortunate indeed. 

If Katie's sorties into high society were awkward, her
attempts to entertain old friends and family at home
were actually painful.  It took the threat of tears
before Maggie would agree to join them for dinner. 
Dunham, the chauffeur, was dispatched to pick her up on 
the evening in question.  

Later Katie learned that first her mother had been
afraid to get into the Rolls Royce, but once inside,
she had insisted that Dunham give rides to several
neighbors before she allowed him to take her uptown. 
At the table, Maggie's nervousness had made her
quarrelsome, and Katie, to her own shame, found her
coarse and opinionated.  

Long before the last course was served, Maggie 
suddenly announced that it was time to leave.  
When she couldn't be dissuaded, Mulder himself 
drove her home, as she declared that Dunham
drove like a madman and she'd prefer to walk.

Mulder took it all in stride.  Mothers, he 
explained, had a sacred duty to embarrass their 
children.  In no time at all, Katie would be 
dreaming up ways to make their own Baby Boo wish 
he was an orphan.

Her sister's visits were easier.  She found Missy's
gawking and frank exclamations of astonishment easier
to bear than their mother's defensive rudeness.  Often
Danny excluded himself from the gathering, but when he
came along he was solemn and well-behaved.   Michael
was happiest rough-housing with Mulder, but if he or
his brother became overly difficult, it was a simple
matter to entrust them to one of the maids.  

After one such visit, Katie overheard Edgar
reprimanding a footman for mimicking Missy's 
low-class accent and manners.

Sometimes Charlie would tag along with Missy and the
boys, but more often he would come on his own, and use
the servants' entrance.  Katie would find him in the
kitchen, delighting Cook with his appetite and
appreciation.   He had long since abandoned his
crutches, but there was a funny hitch to his gait that
troubled Katie.  Vincent had said they needed to give
it time, but Katie still worried.

Bill visited only once, wearing the Sunday suit that 
used to seem fancy but was now quaint and worn.  He 
spoke carefully and formally, even following Teena's 
example and addressing her as Katherine.

Shayna was Shayna wherever she went.  Mulder
introduced her to Teena as Katie's old friend and his
personal guardian angel.  Teena was surprisingly
unperturbed by Shayna's frank and picturesque speech,
but Mulder theorized that most of it went over her
head.  

Mrs. Tibby graced the table several times,
without causing a stir.  She and Teena Mulder had
a passing acquaintance from the good works both 
women devoted time to.

Teena was accommodating to the visitors from the east
side, even gracious, after her fashion.  Katie still
longed for the little house she and Mulder once
dreamed of, with a nursery and a darkroom, but it had
been months since either of them mentioned it, and
months since Mulder had picked up a camera.

Mulder was not unaware of her discomfort.  When he
urged his mother to escape the cold weather on an
ocean cruise or at a spa, Katie knew he was thinking
of her.  Teena crushed both their hopes by answering
that she couldn't even think of enjoying herself so
soon after William's death, and certainly wouldn't
leave Katherine alone with a baby on the way.

Mulder suggested to Katie that they might plan a 
party on the yacht, away from Teena and the house 
staff. Just a small party.

"That's what Pierpont Morgan does, when he's looking
for some privacy.  I, er. . . "  He swallowed his
embarrassment and continued:  "I believe Father did
something of the kind as well."

"Mulder, we can't have a party," she said.  "We're
still in mourning."

"Then we don't call it a party.  It'll be just a 
quiet time with friends."

They could invite Langly and the others, even Sean
Pendrell.  Amy Jacobs could come, and Shayna.  Missy
and Danny, maybe even Maggie's boarders and old
Penazek.  Bill.  Even Vincent, if she liked.

"Good lord, Mulder, just how large is your boat?"
Katie asked.  

"Get your coat and I'll take you on a little tour,"
Mulder answered.

If the snobbish society ladies had failed to impress
her with the distance from Clinton Street to Fifth
Avenue, the Gallant hammered the lesson home.   

Katie's father and his men had sweat and froze and
finally died on a boat not half the size of the vessel
that Mulder kept for his occasional amusement.  The
paint was bright and unpocked, the woodwork shined
with varnish, and the staterooms were larger than
Maggie's front parlor.

"Take me home," Katie said, suddenly ill.  Mulder took
her arm and hurriedly led her off the yacht, the crew,
in their crisp white uniforms, standing at attention
on the deck.

"Seasick, love?" he asked.

"Yes," she lied, placing a hand on her newly rounded
belly.  "I'll be fine, if we could just go home."

Concern creased Mulder's face as he motioned Dunham
over with the Rolls.  

"Perhaps after the baby," he said.  "We'll have our
party then."

That was a month ago, when early fall temperatures had
been warm enough for a sailing party.  Now, as Katie
sipped her tea and watched Teena chat with Mrs. Schuyler, 
she shivered, though the room was warm.   Mrs. Cortlandt
had moved on, no doubt passing along her observations of
Mrs. Mulder's awkward daughter-in-law.  

Teena worried over Katie's health with her pregnancy,
so they left the luncheon early.  Katie was grateful 
to return to the house on Fifth Avenue.  She had yet 
to think of it as home.

Teena went up to rest before dinner, but Katie made
her way to the kitchen, where Cook fixed her a
sandwich and poured a cup of tea.  Skinner entered
some ten minutes later, and took the seat across from
her.

"Did you enjoy your outing?" he asked.

"It was so thrilling, I could barely eat my lunch,"
Katie replied.  She took a careful bite of her 
sandwich.  

Skinner laughed, reaching for an apple from the 
bowl of fruit on the counter.

"They don't know what to make of you," he said,
sitting across from her.  His gaze locked on her 
sandwich, and she smiled.

"Are you hungry, Walter?"

"Maybe a little," he said.  Katie called out to Cook, 
who was delighted to set a huge sandwich before the 
man.  Walter Skinner's appetite was a source of much 
gratification for Cook.

"I doubt they'll ever get used to me, much less accept
me."  Katie sighed, looking out as leaves blew past
the window.

"Does that bother you?" 

"Not especially.  At least not for myself.  But I 
hate being an embarrassment to Mulder."

"If Mulder was any more proud of you, he'd have to
carry you around on a pedestal."

Katie smiled to herself.  She's been wary of Skinner
at first, always remembering the day he'd tried to
warn her off Mulder, back when she knew him as Mathew
Fox.   She knew he and Mulder had come to blows over
her and that had confused and upset her.    

It took months before Katie began to understand her
husband's friendship with Skinner.  Mulder mentioned
once that Skinner was the first adult who was willing
to have a conversation with him.

"Uncle Dewitt was always kind, but most often he was
trying to teach me something, or test my knowledge. 
With Skinner I could talk about anything."

"What about your parents?" Katie had asked.  Da had
shown endless patience when she'd prattled on about
school and friends.  Ma was always more tart with her
comments, but she'd listened too, usually as they
cooked or cleaned.

"Yes, of course," Mulder had answered, too quickly. 
"But I wanted to impress my father, so I was careful
when I spoke.  And my mother would get headaches when
I chattered on too long."

What confounded Katie about the friendship was its
asymmetry.  Skinner retained a sense of responsibility
and authority, as if Mulder's conduct and achievements
still reflected his success as a tutor.

Mulder, for his part, showed a shocking ignorance
about the man who was arguably his closest friend.  
Skinner was the main support for his mother and two 
younger sisters.  He was trying to learn Russian.  
He had spent his teen years working as a coal miner.  
These were all things Katie learned that Mulder didn't 
know.  She wasn't sure if that was through lack of 
interest on Mulder's part or Skinner's reticence to
share details of his life.   

It was natural that Katie and Skinner, two outsiders,
would find themselves on common ground.  At first she
had tried to avoid him, still angry about the beating
Mulder had long since forgiven, but Skinner was
always around.  Katie could not imagine what he did
with his time, beyond some typewriting and assorted
errands for Mulder.   One afternoon, a week into the
mourning period, she had learned the answer.

After a long afternoon of endless condolence calls,
Katie couldn't bear the haughty looks and unsubtle
hostility, and found refuge in the kitchen.  She
didn't fit in there any more than she did in the parlor, 
but the Mulder kitchen reminded her of her breakfasts 
with Mathew Fox in the settlement house.  Cook was kind 
and warmhearted, like many of the women who took classes 
there, and Katie found comfort in her presence. 

Walter Skinner had walked in and poured himself a cup
of coffee from the pot on the stove.  From the way
Cook greeted him, he was a frequent visitor.

"When I first came to this house, I used to hide in
the kitchen, too," he'd said as he sat down across
from her at the table.

"I'm not hiding," she'd assured him.  But she was
lying and they both knew it.

"They're an intimidating bunch," Skinner had said. 
"Different from us.  They haven't ever done for
themselves, never had to struggle, never been hungry. 
I think, sometimes, they're afraid."

"Afraid of what?"  The women who gazed at her with
such disdain appeared to be quite fearless.

"Of having to live in the real world with the rest of
us.  No matter how they try and insulate themselves,
the world is changing.  They can't conceive of a life
where they can't snap their fingers and make things 
happen."

"And you think that's what they're afraid of," she
said.

"Perhaps.  Or maybe they just need to believe they're
superior, to justify living so much better than
regular people.  I've lived here for almost fifteen
years and I still haven't figured them out."
 
"You were Mulder's tutor when he was a boy," she'd
said.

"He was far too intelligent for his own good," Skinner
had replied.  "I had to work very hard to keep a step
ahead of him.  I didn't train as a teacher, but I knew
his was an uncommon mind."

He told her about growing up in Shamokin, Pennsylvania, 
where he watched his father go down into the coal mines 
every day.  Skinner had worked in the mines himself 
as a teenager to augment the scholarship he'd gotten
to Pennsylvania State.  

"My father wanted better for me than coughing up coal
dust every night," Skinner had said.
 
Skinner was in his last year of college when his
father died in a mine fire.   Any plans he'd had for
his future were altered forever as he became the sole
support of his widowed mother and two young sisters.

After graduation, one of his professors suggested
he apply for a position as a tutor in New York City. 
Skinner told Katie of taking the train to New York and
meeting William Mulder.

"He didn't hold out much hope for the boy.  Fox had 
failed to apply himself at boarding school.  He was
unpredictable, willful, and at the same time
something of a mama's boy.  An indifferent yachtsman,
unimpressive on horseback.  'Don't be afraid to apply
the cane, if that's what it takes.'"

Skinner's brown eyes didn't flinch, but Katie
shuddered.

"When I finally met him, I found the boy to be nothing
like his father had described him," Skinner had told
Katie.  "His mind was razor-sharp and ordinary
schoolwork bored him to tears.  But more than that, 
he was starved for attention."

Fox's education continued as a spotty patchwork,
intervals of boarding school interrupted by extensive
travels abroad with the family.  The perquisite of
world travel was one that Skinner appreciated
enormously.

When Fox was away at St. Paul's, and later when he
went to university in Boston, William Mulder found
Skinner work in the office.  After graduation, when
Fox was sent to work in London, his father decided
that he needed monitoring and sent Skinner along as 
a watchdog.  

As Katie grew assured of Skinner's loyalty to her
husband, she found it easy to talk to him. The
business was taking more and more of Mulder's time as
he tried to fill his father's shoes.  Katie worried 
about how difficult that was for him.  She was 
determined not to add to his burden, so she rarely 
spoke of how uncomfortable she felt among the Mulders' 
friends.   Skinner was the only person who truly 
understood.  

"How is your writing coming?" Katie asked, her
attention returning to the present.  

"Slowly.  It isn't for lack of time, of course.  But
the section I'm working on right now is rather
difficult for me.  A little too personal, I suppose."

The mystery of why Walter Skinner stayed employed in a
job that offered no challenge was explained the day he
revealed his secret to Katie.  Skinner was writing a
book about his boyhood.  

"Keep after it," she said, rising from her seat. 
"It'll all be worth it in the end."

"I could say the same to you," he replied.  "Don't let
them break you.  No matter what they think, you're
better than they are.  You know how to live in the
real world."

Later that night, Katie was still mulling over
Skinner's words as she lay in bed.  Mulder was curled
around her, his head on her belly as he sang silly
songs to "Baby Boo" in what had become a nightly
ritual.  Tonight he delivered a rousing though off-key
rendition of "Under the Bamboo Tree."

"How was your day," he asked, raising his head to look
at her.  "You went with Mother to the library
luncheon, didn't you."

"It was fine," Katie said, sifting her fingers through
Mulder's hair.  "Mrs. Cortlandt said you were a
'catch' and I was lucky to latch onto you."

"A 'catch,' am I?  If you ask me, I'm the lucky one."

"You seem to be the only one who thinks that," Katie
laughed.

"Give them time.  They need to get to know you."

"Skinner thinks the rich are afraid," Katie said. At
Mulder's questioning look, she continued.  "Afraid
they don't deserve their place of privilege, and that
they couldn't survive without their wealth."

"Skinner said that?" Mulder asked.  

"You sound surprised."

"Katie...you're spending a lot of your time with him,"
Mulder said.

"Mulder, he lives here."

"He could find a more suitable use of his time than
trying to impress my wife."

Mulder sounded stuffy and moody.  Nothing like the man
who had just finished serenading her belly.  Nothing
like Mathew Fox.

"You needn't be jealous of Skinner.  It is Edgar I
love," she announced.

"I'm serious, Katie."

"Oh, Edgar, Edgar, Edgar.  How I long to hold his
rotund body in my arms."

"Not much room, against your own rotund body."  

She heard the humor return to Mulder's voice, and he
sounded like himself again.

"I love you, Mulder.  Don't see evil where there isn't
any."

"I don't see evil, Katie, not when I look at you."  He
kissed her neck.  "He's not evil either, but he's
drawn to you.  He was from the first."

Katie knew her friendship with Skinner was as innocent
as it was inevitable.   She would explain it so Mulder
would understand, but not tonight.  It was late and
she was tired.  She ruffled his hair and told him to
go to sleep.  Mulder gave her a long, serious look
before kissing her again and wrapping his arms around 
her as he did every night.

The weather grew colder in the days to come and before
Katie knew it, Thanksgiving had arrived.  Mulder 
nervously faced his first holiday at the head of the 
table.  

Katie had always thought if would be wonderful to
enjoy a holiday dinner without the chores of
preparation or the worries of how to pay for it, but
Mulder was positively grim.  

"Mother says it's all too much for her, so soon after
losing Father.  But Uncle Dewitt says it's imperative
to show that the Mulder line endures.  I'm to display
dignity and confidence, to claim my proper place
without the appearance of undue ambition."

"I don't understand, love.  For whom are you making
this display?"

Mulder explained that his mentor had suggested, in the
strongest terms, that certain friends of the family
should be included at the Thanksgiving table.  A few
influential people, foreigners or others who found
themselves separated from their families.

"Of course we'll invite your family as well," he said.
Katie knew the invitation would be declined, and
surely Mulder knew it too.  Maggie had too much pride
to enjoy the role of the poor relation.   

"Mrs. Tibby?" he suggested.  Mild-mannered and quiet,
Mrs. Tibby could be accepted anywhere, but for years
she had spent Thanksgiving Day with the poor children 
of the Juvenile Asylum.  

"What about Samantha and Sean?" Katie saw Mulder's
face fall, and she was sorry she'd asked.

"Samantha. . . isn't ready.  I don't think Mother is
either," he said with a heavy sigh.

"Then who are these important guests?" she asked.  

Mulder mentioned a retired general and a former
ambassador.  Old men who had outlived their families. 
An Argentine youth studying at Columbia.  Mulder's
former boss from London, Sir Warwick Miles Manchester, 
who was in New York on business.

"And one more," he added.  "But only if you approve."

Katie had known Thanksgivings where the broth was
mostly water and the bird was a skinny old hen, but
she'd never heard of anything as sad and dry as the
dinner that Mulder was planning.

"I'm almost afraid to ask," she said.  By Mulder's
expression, he was almost afraid to tell her.

"Diana Fowley."

"No."  Katie's answer was automatic and firm.  Mulder
didn't protest.

"Then we won't invite her," he said, reassuringly.

"I don't understand why you would even consider it."

"DT thinks a public show of friendship would stabilize
her company, and that would help us as well.  But
don't be concerned.  She'll not enter this house over
your objection."

"Heaven forfend that our Thanksgiving have anything to
do with fellowship or giving thanks for what we have,"
Katie snapped.

"We have each other, for which I am always thankful. 
Diana is alone, and the Schuylers are in Havana."

Katie's indignation almost pushed her to withdraw her
veto, to challenge Mulder to go ahead and invite his
former fiancee, since she was so important to him and
in such a tragic predicament.  But she kept her head.

"Mrs. Fowley is not welcome here," she said,
emphatically.

"And she's not coming."

The specter of Diana Fowley was only one of the
shadows on their holiday.  Teena's melancholy seemed
to deepen as the seasonal festivities approached. 
Walter Skinner had requested  time off to visit with
his own family, and Katie missed him keenly.  

The seamstress, called in yet again to accommodate
Katie's increasing girth, offered her jolly assessment
that sure, Mrs. Fox was big, but she had yet a long
way to go.  That night Katie woke up with tears
streaming down her face.  Mulder held her and kissed
her, asking again and again what was wrong.  She was
ashamed to tell him that she hated being fat and ugly.
She was afraid to ask him if perhaps that was why his
thoughts had returned to Diana Fowley.  

For all of Mulder's worry and Katie's resentment and
tears, Thanksgiving itself was a pleasant diversion. 
Mulder shined in his role as head of the family, and 
the guests proved interesting and entertaining.  Most 
of all, they gave Katie their full respect as the lady 
of the house, something she had never before 
experienced.

She found Sir Warwick to be especially kind.  With
his warmth and gentility, Katie had little trouble 
imagining him one of King Arthur's knights.  Mulder
hung on Manchester's words, as he discussed how banking
was binding the world every more tightly.

General Callahan posited that the European situation was
becoming unsettled.  

"Kaiser Wilhelm is hungry.  He'd like nothing more 
than to gobble up more territory," Callahan said.
"The question is, will Taft slap him down."

"Surely, Taft wouldn't involve us," Ambassador Holvey 
replied.  

Katie found their discussion fascinating, but Teena
seemed to grow uncomfortable with the conversation and
soon it turned to more benign topics.

The month between Thanksgiving and Christmas flew by.
Katie insisted on doing her own Christmas shopping, 
though Teena was scandalized.  Katie wasn't sure if 
it was her advanced pregnancy, or the thought of a 
Mulder dealing with merchants that upset her.  

But for the first time in her life, Katie had the means
to be generous.  Mulder had bestowed a sizable 
allowance on Katie, and though she rarely used any
of it for herself, purchasing gifts for friends and
family was different somehow.

The first thing Katie did was order new shoes for
the whole family.   Though the Scullys were far from
destitute now, it hadn't been that many years since
William Scully's boat had been badly damaged by
a Nor'easter.   With no income, the family had 
struggled to make ends meet.  Katie remembered 
her mother cutting newspaper to fit inside their
shoes as the leather wore thin.  Margaret Scully 
still complained about how often Charlie's shoes
needed to be resoled.  

Katie bought some practical things: warm coats for 
her mother and Missy, a new set of butcher knives for
Danny.  But she also enjoyed buying toys for Missy's
boys.  As she stood in the toy store, Katie looked at 
the toy trains and fingered the baby dolls and wondered 
which she would give to her baby in the years to come.  

By far, the most difficult purchase was her gift for
Mulder.  It seemed wrong, somehow, to use Mulder's 
money for his own gift, which meant Katie had to be
very creative.  She had a little bit of money saved
from her salary before her marriage.  

Katie thought of buying Mulder a pocket watch, but
he already owned a finer one than she could afford. 
She thought of a good camera, but he had a dozen, 
all expensive.  The idea came to her one day, as she 
leafed through a book of Mathew Brady portraits.  

Mulder had mentioned once that while he liked and
admired Brady's formal work, he found an actual thrill
in those photos that displayed a suggestion of
something spontaneous.  Skinner made inquiries on her
behalf among some dealers, but she found nothing to
her liking among the pictures they showed her, and she
was aghast at the prices.  

It was Charlie who told her about a dusty shop on
Nassau Street with "heaps of ol' pitchers."  
From his enthusiastic description of cannons and 
corpses, she deduced that at least some of the work 
was of the right vintage, and she decided to take 
her search there.

She had made her selection, a trio of Union soldiers
lounging under a tree, when she spotted a small
daguerreotype with ragged edges.  A jaunty officer and
his pretty young wife sat in folding chairs in front
of a tent.  It must have been in the earliest days of
the War for a soldier's family to be present at the
encampment.  The young man's face was serious and
confident as he faced the camera.  The wife's head was
bowed, and all her attention went to the blur she held
on her lap.  A man, a woman, and a bouncing, squirming
infant.  Only the child's feet were in clear enough
focus to prove that the blur was a baby.

The father's expression showed not a hint of
uncertainty, and Katie's breath caught in her throat
at his innocence.  

She wondered what happened to the little family.  Had
the young father died in battle, or had he limped home
in rags after the war?  Had the young mother mourned, or
rejoiced?  Katie studied the picture, trying to judge
the age of the child.  

She turned the photograph over.  "Mathew Brady. June 5, 
1861" was written on a slip of paper glued to the back.  
The baby in the picture would be a grown man now, older 
than Margaret Scully.  Had the child lived, or had
illness or privation taken him?

"How much for this one?" she asked the gray-haired
proprietor.  

The price he quoted was steep, but the daguerreotype 
was rare.  "Brady didn't often photograph children,"
the dealer explained.  

Katie paid for the photograph and arranged to have it
framed.  Mulder would love it, of that she was sure.

Katie and Mulder spent Christmas Eve with the Scullys.
Teena Mulder had declined Maggie's invitation, choosing
instead to spend the evening with the Schuylers.  It was
just as well, Katie thought.  The two women were vastly
uncomfortable with each other.

Katie led Mulder up the steps of the boarding house, his
arms full of packages, as were those of Dunham, the 
chauffeur.  

"If it isn't Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus," Missy said as 
she opened the door, little Jimmy was perched on her hip. 
"Ya really got the figure fer it these days, doncha, 
Katie."

"Santa!  Santa here?"  Little Michael came tearing 
across the parlor, stopping short in disappointment
when he saw that the visitors were only his aunt and
uncle.  

"Oh you're very funny," Katie said, stooping down to
gather Michael into her arms.  She had to admit, 
though, that she did bear a resemblance to a bowl 
full of jelly these days.  

"Hey, Minnow," Bill said, rising from the settee.  "I
think we're gonna hafta start calling you 'whale'."

"That's enough," Katie said, laughing as she 
straightened out, her hand at the small of her back.

"I think you look lovely," Danny said as he took her
coat.  Katie breathed a small sigh of relief when she
detected no scent of whiskey.  

"Thank you," she said to her brother-in-law.  

"Whatja bring me," Charlie said, as he hurried
over to the mountain of presents that Mulder and 
Dunham had laid on the floor.  

Though his broken leg had healed well, Charlie 
still limped.  Katie had gotten a recommendation from
Vincent for a doctor who specialized in orthopedics.
Strengthening exercise had been his prescription, 
but Charlie complained that the physiotherapy
was boring.

"Don't be cheeky," Missy said, pinching his arm.  

"Ouch!" Holding one brightly wrapped package aloft,
Charlie moved out of Missy's reach.  "Hey, this one's
fer me."

With a small bow, Dunham took his leave to enjoy his
Christmas Eve dinner with the other servants back at
the Mulder house.

"Ach, you're here," Maggie said, wiping her hands on
her apron as she came into the room.  "Hello Fox.  
Katie, dear, how are ya feelin'?  I hope ya haven't 
been doin' too much."

"I'm fine, Ma," Katie replied, giving her mother a 
peck on the cheek.  "Fox doesn't let me lift a
finger.  Dinner smells wonderful."

"I'm hopin' the goose isn't dry," her mother said.  

Despite Maggie's concern, the goose was moist and
flavorful.  The dinner was far more lavish than
Maggie usually fixed, but Mulder's generosity had
eased the family finances.   Not that stiff-necked
Margaret Scully allowed Mulder to help her as much
as he wanted to.

A candle burned in the middle of the table, set in 
a hollowed out gourd that had been filled with bran.  
"For the Holy Family," Charlie had explained to Mulder.  
"We'll leave it burnin' all night to welcome them."

After dinner, they opened their presents.  Missy 
wrapped herself in her new coat with its luxurious
fur collar.  "Don't I look like Mrs. Astor," she joked.

"Mrs. Astor isn't nearly as pretty," Mulder said.
"She's got a bit of an overbite."

Charlie opened his packages, thanking Katie and Mulder
for the warm clothes and sturdy boots inside.  Katie 
detected a hint of disappointment and hid her smile.

"This's for Fox," Charlie said, handing him a package.  
He held up a small, beribboned box.  "And this 'un's 
for you, Katie.

Fox opened his gift and made a proper fuss over the
finely knit sweater inside.  "It's beautiful.  The wool 
is so soft," he said.

"I hoped you'd like it," Maggie said.  "Back home,
the fishermen wear these because they're so warm.
The cables are supposed ta ensure a good catch.
Katie, dear, open your package."

Obediently, Katie slipped the paper off the small box.
She gasped when she lifted the lid.  Inside, nestled
in the tissue paper was something that had fascinated 
Katie since she was a tiny girl.  Tears pricking her
eyes, she lifted the cameo broach.  

"Oh, Ma!  Thank you...thank you so much."  

"It was my mother's," Maggie explained to Mulder.  
"She gave it to me the day I left Ireland."

Katie had loved the pink and white broach ever since
she was four or five.  Each Sunday, she'd watched her 
mother pin it on before church.  When Maggie was feeling 
particularly indulgent, she'd let Katie hold the broach.
Katie would turn the cool carnelian over and over 
until the broach warmed in her fingers.

"Katie," Mulder said, nudging his wife.  "I think we
may have left one package behind."

Katie glanced around the room.  "Oh dear, I think you 
may be right."

"Perhaps we left it outside in all the excitement.  
Charlie, can you go and check the stoop?"

Charlie shrugged and did as he was asked.  Mulder
and Katie waited until they heard his shriek before
hurrying out with the rest of the family close 
behind them.  

"Holy Mackerel!  Is it for me?  Is it really?"  
Charlie was practically dancing with joy at the
shiny new Columbia bicycle standing on the
stoop.

"Charles Scully!  Watch yer language," Maggie 
admonished.  "Oh my goodness.  Fox, what on 
earth did you and Katie do."

"It'll strengthen his leg, Ma," Katie said
so only her mother could hear.  

"Oh Ma, look at it," Charlie said, with a 
toothy grin.  "I betcha I can ride all the
way to Hoboken on this here bike."

"How ya gonna go to Hoboken, dopey.  Ya gotta
serve Midnight Mass," Bill teased.

"Can I jes take a ride up the street, then? 
Can I, Ma," Charlie pleaded.  

"Just a little ways, Charlie, and be careful,"
his mother said.   

With a whoop, Charlie wrestled the bicycle down the 
steps.   Bill and Mulder gave him a hand getting 
started on his wobbly ride down Clinton Street.  
In a very short time, Charlie mastered the art 
and managed to keep the bike mostly upright.

Later, as she stood in St. Brigid's, Mulder at
her side, Katie smiled at the memory of Charlie's
wild ride.  

She glanced down the pew at her mother and Bill and
Missy.  Danny had stayed back with the little ones
who were to young for Midnight Mass.  Every once
in a while, Charlie would search the congregation 
for his family.  Father McCue had admonished him 
for the habit and Maggie had delivered stern 
warnings, but Charlie was incorrigible.  

Indeed, Charlie grinned widely as he held the gold 
salver under Katie's chin at communion.  She hoped
he had the good sense to wipe the smile off his face
by the time he and Father McCue progressed down the
communion rail to Margaret Scully.  

Katie yawned as they climbed into the Rolls after 
they left the church.  

"We'll be doing this all over again at Trinity in 
the morning," Mulder reminded her.

Christmas morning found the streets covered with a
thin layer of snow.  Katie and Mulder made their 
sleepy way down to breakfast, both still tired from
their late night.

"How was your evening, Mother?" Mulder asked as they
took their seats.

"It was very nice, dear.   Adele had invited Bishop
Carlyle and Sir Warwick.  Oh, and Diana was there.
I was afraid, perhaps, it might have been awkward, but
Diana conducted herself with perfect grace."

Katie kept her eyes on her plate, doing her best not 
to react to the mention of Diana's name.  Mulder quickly 
changed the subject, drawing his mother to the subject 
of Adele Schuyler's latest charity endeavor.  

After breakfast, they all went to mass at Trinity Church.  
Katie rarely went with Mulder and his mother, attending
at St. Brigid's with Margaret Scully, instead.  Mass at
Trinity Church always felt more like a social event than
a religious rite to her.  The women were always 
beautifully dressed and coiffed and they seemed to spend
a great deal of time assessing each other's appearance.

Later that morning, they sat in the parlor, preparing to
open their gifts.  Katie wondered about the Christmases
of Mulder's childhood.  She only knew life in the 
Mulder house under the circumstances of mourning,
but Katie suspected that this stiff, formal Christmas
morning was not exceptional.

In deference to William Mulder's death months ago, the
house had not been decorated for the holidays.  Mulder 
had told Katie that the Christmas trees from years past
had been brought from the Mulder's Maine estate.  The
tree from last year had been fifteen feet tall.  

Gifts were a more ambiguous area in formal mourning.  
The Mulders would not attend Christmas parties and would
not exchange gifts with friends, but within the family
presents were apparently permitted.  Katie was often
puzzled by the rules and regulations of grieving among
the wealthy.  Not that poor people didn't mourn, but they
had to worry so much about day to day existence that
formalities were often ignored.

"How lovely," Teena exclaimed when she opened the box
containing her gift.  She held the 17th century Venetian
perfume bottle so the sunlight glinted off the gold
trimming.  "Wherever did you find it?  I've been 
searching for just this piece for years."

"I have my sources," Mulder replied smugly. Katie had 
been intimidated at the idea of buying a gift for a woman 
who had so much.  Mulder, on the other hand, knew exactly 
what would please his mother.  This prized and hideously
expensive addition to her antique perfume bottle collection 
had obviously been just the thing.  

"Well, thank you both.  Katie," Teena said with a smile.  
"You must open your gift from Fox."

"Oh yes," Mulder said as he handed Katie a slim, lavishly
wrapped box.

"And this one is for you."  Katie retrieved the box 
containing the now framed Mathew Brady print from beside
the settee and gave it to Mulder.

All eyes were on Katie as she slipped the ribbons from
her box and removed the paper.  Obviously, Teena had seen
what was in the package.  Perhaps she'd even helped Mulder
pick it out.  The box was inscribed with the name Cartier.
Katie opened it and lifted out a diamond and sapphire 
necklace.  

"Oh my goodness," she said, softly.  She'd never seen anything
so costly in her life, much less held it in her hands.  The
stones glittered like ice crystals.  "I don't know what to
say.  Thank you, Mul...Fox."

"You are welcome," he said, taking her hand.  "Love, I wanted
to give you something that would approach how lovely you are."

Katie felt her mouth go dry as she ran her fingers over the
cool stones.  She knew she should be gushing over her gift,
but words failed her.  

"Fox, open your package," his mother said, and he complied.

The tearing of the paper broke the silence of the parlor. 
Katie wished, now, that she could take the package from 
Mulder and hide it.  How could her poor gift of a ragged
photograph compare with an expensive necklace?  

"Oh Katie," he said, his voice thick with emotion.  "This
is wonderful.  Simply wonderful.  A Mathew Brady.  A 
real Mathew Brady."

Teena looked puzzled, but Mulder appeared truly pleased.  
He kissed her quickly before turning his attention back
to the daguerreotype.  His finger traced over the glass
covering it, seeming to gravitate to the blurred baby.

The rest of the day was spent quietly.  The servants 
were celebrating the holiday on their own.  Those who
had family in the city had been given permission to visit
and those who remained behind at the house were enjoying
dinner and caroling.  

As she and Mulder ate their simple dinner with Teena, 
Katie could hear voices drifting up from downstairs,
singing "God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman" and "O Little Town
of Bethlehem."  She tried not to be envious of the 
warmth of the downstairs celebration.

New Years passed and Katie found herself counting off
the days until she would be able to see her feet.  If
it wasn't for Mulder checking, Katie was quite sure 
she'd be wearing one black and one brown shoe.

One cold afternoon, Katie wallowed on the sofa by the
fireplace, letting her neck go limp as Mulder,
standing behind her, massaged her shoulders.  She was
supremely uncomfortable lately, whether she sat or
stood.  Walking was becoming nearly impossible with
pressure from the child and the cramping that came 
and went.

"Huckleberry.  Huck, for short," Mulder suggested.

"I like that."  She knew he was joking, but Twain's
masterpiece was among her favorites.

"Huck Mulder.  Sounds good."

"Certainly better than Baby Boo Mulder."

The baby's arrival was but weeks away, and they
couldn't seem to find the right name.  Katie secretly
hoped to name the child after one of her grandparents
but she could only imagine Teena's reaction to a
child with an Irish name.

"We could drop the 'baby' and just call him Boo,"
Mulder said.

"And that would work equally well if she's a girl."

Mulder interrupted the massage for a quick tickle
under the chin.

"You're not even trying," he complained.

"Huckette for a girl," Katie conceded, grimacing
as a cramp pulled across her abdomen.  Mulder shot her
a concerned look, but she smiled and told him everything
was fine.

The sound of footsteps preceded the knock on the door,
and then the voice of Lucy, the downstairs maid.

"A gentleman to see you.  A Mr. Frohike."

"Please show him in," Mulder said.  

It wasn't customary to receive visitors in their
private sitting room, but Frohike was an exception 
to most rules.  He had known and supported Mulder 
as Mathew Fox, and also worked with Katie at the
settlement house, teaching American History.  Now he 
drew a salary from Mulder, as one of the partners in 
the Little Dynamo Company.

Frohike was still wearing his hat and coat when he
entered the room, although Lucy must have offered to
take them.

"Ah.  I see we're in the presence of the journalist,"
Mulder remarked.

"Happy New Year, Kate.  You too, longshanks."

"And to you.  How was your Christmas?" Katie asked,
rubbing her belly to ease the ache.

"OK, that's enough of that.  Mulder, what do you know
about the Ballinger deal?"

Sometimes the little man reminded her of an actor in a
cheap melodrama, changing hats and donning moustaches
to indicate he was switching characters.

"I read the papers," Mulder answered.

"Ballinger handed over public lands to some friends of
yours."

As Katie understood it, Interior Secretary Ballinger
had been involved in the transfer of protected forest
to a Morgan-Guggenheim syndicate.  While the Morgans
could be loosely described as friends, she knew that
Teena thoroughly disapproved of the Guggenheims.

"The Congressional investigation cleared him of any
wrongdoing," Mulder said.

"How come you didn't get a piece of that, Mulder?"

"I'm sorry, I don't share my business activities with
the press."

"Oh, well.  I'm done for the day anyhow."  Frohike
removed his coat and threw it over a chair.

"Then perhaps you have time for visit," Katie said. 
Already Frohike was reaching for the whiskey decanter.

"Help yourself," Mulder said dryly.

"It makes Taft look bad," Frohike said. 

"He's a decent man," Mulder said.  "Too bad you
newspaper boys like to tear him down."

"It makes Roosevelt look good," Frohike continued

"He's another decent man," said Mulder.  

"I don't see how Roosevelt could run unless Taft
stepped aside," Katie said.  She shifted her body
on the sofa, trying to find a comfortable position.
Her back ached, and the feeling of tightness had 
returned to her belly.

"They'll have to work it out, or risk losing to the
Democrats," Mulder said.

"Which wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing," Frohike
said.

"As long as it isn't Bryan," said Mulder.  "But who
else do they have?"

"You mean who do they have who doesn't stink to high
heaven," said Frohike.

"Now wait a minute!" Katie protested.  

Her own brother was a cog in the Democratic machine,
but she bristled at the inference that the entire
party was corrupt.  

"If you take a drive up to Albany, you'll find plenty
of stench on the Republican side of the aisle," Mulder
said.

"True enough.  Time to throw the rascals out and vote
in some new rascals," said Frohike.

"Mulder, may I see your watch?" Katie asked.  The
cramping seemed more frequent.   

"Do you know Alfred Smith?" Mulder asked, as he
absently passed his watch to Katie.

"Everyone knows Al Smith," Frohike said.  

Their discussion drifted over her.  Katie placed a
hand over her middle, waiting to feel the next
contraction.  

Frohike talked about the need for more federal
regulation.  Mulder said that hardly anyone in
Washington even understood banking or investment.

Katie timed eight minutes between the pains.  

"I could see you in government, longshanks.  Secretary
of the Treasury, maybe."

"Gedouttaheah," Mulder answered, with perfect east
side diction.

"Well, look at what we've been saying.  The people
don't want the dirty candidates, and the reformers
make themselves too many enemies in the machines. 
It's time for a change."

"Change is coming, of that I am sure," said Mulder.

"Mulder..." 

"I know, Katie, the change isn't coming fast enough."

"Mulder--"  A contraction caught her before she could
complete the sentence.

"Katie?  It's too soon!"  There was terror in Mulder's
voice.

"What should we do?" asked Frohike, with equal panic.

"Baby Boo thinks the time has come," she said, as
lightly as she could.  What an odd thing, she thought,
how pain could be so strong in one minute, and then
disappear the next.

"I'll get the midwife!" Frohike shouted.

"No, get Dunham," said Mulder.  His hands were on
Katie's arms, and she could his fingers tremble.

"Yes, Dunham!"  Frohike ran from the room, then
reappeared at the doorway.  "Who's Dunham?"

"The chauffeur.  We're going to the hospital," Mulder
explained.

"The hospital?"  he asked, as if he couldn't believe
what he'd heard.  

Katie laughed, because their decision had found the
same response from her own mother, and from Teena as
well.

"It's the twentieth century, Frohike," she reminded
him.  "We're going to the hospital."

******************************
 
She woke to the smell of flowers and laundry starch.
Katie's body felt as if it was one large bruise, the
bedcovers as heavy as lead atop her legs.  Opening her 
eyes seemed like an insurmountable task. 

Her memory was cloudy.  She remembered wrenching 
pain in her back and belly and a terrified Mulder 
gripping her hand so hard she thought her bones might 
be crushed.  She remembered him pleading with the doctor 
and nurses to help her, to take away her pain.  
She remembered the smell of ether as the mask drew closer 
to her face, and then she remembered nothing.

Katie forced her eyes open to find Mulder at her side, 
holding her hand again, though gently this time.  His 
face was tear-stained and serious.

"The baby?" she asked, her voice shaking with fear.

"The baby's fine," Mulder answered quickly, bringing 
Katie's hand to his lips.  "Beautiful and healthy and strong.  
But, you lost a lot of blood, Katie.  Dr. Speake said it was 
very close.  Oh, God...I don't think I could go on living if
anything happened to you."

"Mulder, I'm fine," she said, struggling to sit up.  Mulder
turned a crank at the end of the bed, raising the head so
Katie could finally see the room.  

With elegant draperies and bedclothes, the room was as lovely 
as their room at the Plaza.  Paintings hung on the walls and 
the room glowed with soft lamplight.  Bouquets of flowers 
bloomed on every table, dresser and windowsill.

"This is a hospital, right?" she asked.  

"Last time I looked," Mulder answered.  As if to prove his
statement, a nurse entered the room, brandishing a thermometer.
Mulder wouldn't surrender Katie's hand, so the nurse worked
around him, taking Katie's pulse and temperature.  

"Please bring my baby," Katie asked, her voice sounding
wispy and weak.  

"Mrs. Mulder, you need to rest.  Maybe you can see your baby
a little later this afternoon."

"No," Katie said, as firmly as she could manage.  "I want 
my baby now.  Surely, it must be feeding time."

"Mrs. Mulder, you had a very difficult delivery.  You need 
to regain your strength.  Dr. Speake has ordered formula 
for the baby."

Katie steeled herself for the fight, fiercely staring at
the woman. 

"Bring the baby," Mulder said.   

The nurse looked at Mulder cautiously and then left the room,
returning a few minutes later with a tightly swaddled infant.
 
"That will be all," Katie said, wishing she felt as strong
as she needed to be.  Her arms and legs still felt as 
if they were made of stone, but she desperately wanted to 
see her baby.  

"Mulder, help me," she said as she struggled to loosen 
the baby's tight wrapping.  His fingers must have been 
as wooden as her own, as he seemed as clumsy as she was.  

Finally, they freed the tiny body from its swaddling,
revealing soft, pink skin and frantically waving
limbs.  The baby made little mewling sounds, escalating
finally into cries.  Katie laughed as she gazed down
at her baby daughter.  She'd been so afraid that something
had gone wrong, she hadn't thought to ask if she had a 
son or daughter.   

"Welcome, little one," Katie whispered.  "We've been
waiting for you.  Oh, Mulder...she's beautiful."

"Isn't she?  She has blue eyes like you."

"All babies have blue eyes, Mulder.  They change color
later."  One-handed, Katie untied the ribbons at the 
front of her nightdress and put the infant to her breast.
The cries gave way to contented suckling.

"She has your nose," Mulder said.  "Thank God for that.
So, is she to be Huckette, after all?"

"I was thinking," Katie said.  "I think I'd like to name
her Mairead, after my grandmother.  She died not long after
my mother came to this country."

"Mairead?" he asked.

"It's Gaelic for Margaret."

"It's pretty, just like she is," Mulder said.  "I think 
she looks just like a Mairead."

Katie's body grew stronger, though for the first few
days after Mairead's birth, she slept far more than
she was awake.  Mulder haunted her hospital room,
staunchly ensuring that her wishes were met.  

The nurses would bring the baby in for feeding, and 
Katie marveled as Mairead's tiny rosebud mouth rooted 
for the nipple.  All too soon, exhaustion would 
drag Katie's eyelids down.  Fortunately, her body and 
little Mairead knew what to do whether Katie was 
conscious or not.  

After two weeks, Katie had healed and regained her 
strength.  Mother and child returned to the Mulder home.  
Katie and Mulder entered the house to happy congratulations
from Edgar and Cook and the other servants.  They
stood in the hall, allowing the servants to view the 
newest member of the Mulder family.

"Baby will be spoiled with all this attention."  

A voice sounded from the hallway, belonging to a
middle-aged woman with a bland demeanor.  Katie looked 
up from Mairead, who was being fussed over by two of
the maids.

"Katherine, dear, this is Lizzy Gill," Teena said as she
swept into the hall.  "She'll look after little Margaret
so you can rest."

Teena later told Katie that she was very lucky to have
been able to engage Lizzy's services, as the baby nurse
was very much in demand with the upper crust of New York 
society.  Teena's friends claimed that under Lizzy's 
care, their children and grandchildren were quiet and 
peaceful.

Katie could see how Lizzy would be just the woman for
the job if a mother wanted to abdicate all care of her
child to someone else.  Lizzy preferred to be completely
in charge of all aspects of infant care and seemed to
look on Katie as somewhat backward in her desire to 
bathe and dress Mairead herself.

Lizzy frowned on mothers who nursed their own children.  
Infant formula could be measured as the baby fed.  
Breast-feeding made the child too clingy and dependant 
on their mother.  Indeed, Teena had been shocked when 
Katie declared that she would nurse Mairead.   

In the interest of keeping peace, Katie swallowed her
annoyance.  She endured Lizzy's sniffs of disapproval 
every time she put Mairead to breast.  

Lizzy would probably still be working at the Mulder 
house if Katie hadn't gotten up early from an afternoon
nap.  She heard the baby crying, the sound that always
signified hunger.  Still in her soft house slippers, 
Katie went to the nursery so she could feed Mairead.
She moved silently into the nursery, just in time to 
see Lizzy dip her finger into a little jar.  

"What are you doing!" Katie shouted, just as Lizzy was
about to slip the finger into Mairead's mouth.  Katie
grabbed Mairead out of Lizzy's arms.

"Mrs. Mulder!"  Startled, Lizzy tried to stuff the
bottle into her pocket but Katie was too quick and 
snatched it away from her.

"I assure you," Lizzy said.  "That's just a health 
serum.  Nothing that might harm little Margaret."

"What's going on?" Mulder asked from the doorway.

"Miss Gill was about to put some of this into
Mairead's mouth," Katie said, holding up the little
bottle.  Mulder took Mairead from Katie, looking
carefully at his daughter.

Lizzy looked as if she was going to bolt from 
the room, but Katie blocked the door.  Without
taking her eyes from the woman, Katie dipped her
finger into the golden substance in the bottle
and tasted it.

"Health serum?  Try whiskey and honey.  Is there
anything else in here, Lizzy?  Laudanum?  Morphine?"

The woman didn't answer, her eyes flashing in 
defiance.

Katie was quite sure that Mulder would have killed 
Lizzy, had he not been holding Mairead.  

"Pack your things," he said, his voice full of
barely controlled rage.  "You can see Edgar for 
your last check."

"Your mother engaged me," Lizzy said.  "Only she
can fire me."

"You'll be out of my house within the hour, or I'll
telephone the police," Mulder said, handing the baby
to Katie.  He loomed over Lizzy, his fists clenched
at his sides.  Lizzy stared at him for a moment
before hurrying from the room.

Lizzy Gill left the Mulder home well before the 
hour had passed.  After she had left the house, 
Katie examined Mairead more closely and assured
Mulder that to the best of her knowledge, the child
was unharmed.  

Katie and Mulder decided not to tell Teena about Lizzy's 
method of keeping babies docile, fearing that she might 
feel guilty at having engaged Lizzy in the first place. 
Mulder had feared that his mother was still in a deeply
emotional state since William Mulder's death.   

Katie hadn't wanted a nanny in the first place, but
Mulder was quite insistent.  He seemed to have been 
shaken to his very core by the circumstances of 
Mairead's birth and was afraid that Katie would wear 
herself out caring for an infant.  No matter that 
hundreds of thousands of women did that very thing 
every day.  So she and Mulder interviewed a number 
of baby nurses to replace Lizzy.

Katie liked Eustacia Muir from their first meeting.  
Proper, but not stuffy, "Stacy" was much more 
willing to let Katie take the lead with Mairead. 

Their days settled into a pattern.  For the first 
few weeks, Maggie Scully visited every day, rocking 
Mairead and softly singing lullabies in Gaelic.   
No matter how uncomfortable she was at the mansion,
Maggie wasn't willing to stay away from her first 
granddaughter.

For her part, Teena seemed fond of her first 
grandchild, but uncomfortable around the infant, whom
she insisted on calling Margaret, the Anglicized
version of Mairead.  Katie wondered if Teena had been 
as awkward around her own children.  

Katie remembered something she'd heard from Vincent
Vitigliano.  He'd talked about a coldness he saw among
the wealthy, where parents and children seemed distant
from each other.  Lizzy Gill had expounded smugly that
babies should be presented to their parents when they
were clean and well-behaved.  "Baby must not think she
can see you whenever she cries."

In Katie's old world, there were no nannies or tutors
or boarding schools.  Children and adults mingled,
sometimes to a fault.  Kids were sent to saloons to
fetch their fathers or to bring back a pail of beer. 
Mothers who took in piecework would put their
daughters to work as well, hemming trousers or
stitching in pockets.

Proper young ladies would never sew.  Embroidery was
mandatory, but nothing so practical as taking in a
dress or replacing a button.

When Katie thought about how she should raise her
daughter, she felt something close to panic.  How
could she see that Mairead had everything good that
money could buy, without the stupidity?  

Maggie Scully was a good mother, but Katie rejected
her narrowness.  Church was fine, but Mairead should
also learn to think for herself.  And education wasn't
frivolous, it was everything.

In an odd way, Shayna Berkowitz represented more of
her ideal than her own mother.  Shayna loved her
children, but that didn't keep her from working at the
settlement house.  For years she found the money to
send Izzy for violin lessons, although at last even
she had to admit that it would be easier to teach the
moon to whistle.  But beyond that, Shayna was always
Shayna.  Sometimes pushy, often too loud, but always 
confident.

"Yoo hoo, Katie!"

"Mrs. Berkowitz! Wait, I have to announce you." 

"What announce?  I can announce myself, thank you
very much."

Shayna burst into the sitting room, a large basket over
her arm.   Lucy, the downstairs maid stood in the doorway, 
disapproval plain upon her face.  Poor Lucy found most of 
the Mulders' visitors to be a bit shocking.

"Shayna!  It's so good to see you."

"Oh, Katie, you're skin and bones," Shayna said, clucking
her tongue as she put the basket on the table.  

"Skin and bones covered by a nice layer of fat," Katie
laughed.  She felt as soft and pudgy as an overstuffed 
chair.

"I brought soup.  Get this warmed up, why doncha,"
Shayna said, pulling a jar out of her basket and 
handing it to Lucy.  

The maid looked as if her eyes were going to pop right 
out of her head, but she took the jar and left the room.

"Thank you, Lucy," Katie called after her.  With a grin,
she turned back to Shayna.  "You enjoyed that, didn't you?" 

"I could get used to this life," Shayna said, bending over
the bassinet that sat within arms length of the sofa.
"So, this is the little one?   What a bee-you-tiful
baby!" 

"I know," Katie replied.  "It probably isn't very modest of
me to admit this, but until I had one, I thought all babies
looked alike.  But she is really, truly beautiful."

"A long life on you, chatchkela."  Shayna's voice was 
almost a whisper. 

"Her name is Mairead," Katie said.  

"Mairead," Shayna repeated.  "Sounds like princess in a
book."

"Princess, indeed.  If Mulder could, I think he'd buy her
a country of her very own." 

"Let me see you, bubele."  Tenderly, Shayna lifted the 
child from her crib.  "Oy, Katie, the little boys are 
going to be lined up around the corner for this one."

"Not if Mulder has anything to say about it," Katie
laughed.  

"And where is the proud papa?"

"I had to send him to work.  He was driving me to 
distraction.  He insisted on checking her every five
minutes.  'Was she hungry? Was she wet?  Did I think
she was too warm?'  I had to get him out from 
underfoot."

"How are you feelin'" Shayna asked as she continued to
gaze at Mairead's face.  

"I'm fine.  I've been fine for weeks, but Mulder 
insists on treating me like an invalid."

"You should listen," Shayna said as she settled into
the rocking chair that Mulder had a footman bring down 
from the nursery.  "Having a baby is hard work." 

"You can say that again," Katie replied.  Her memories
of labor and the delivery of her baby were still a little
hazy.  By the time she and Mulder had arrived at Lenox
Hill Hospital, Katie was in serious pain.  

In her years of nursing, Katie saw women endure the agony
of childbirth.  She'd heard their screams and wondered 
why, with all of modern medicine's advances, women had
to deliver their children in such pain.  

She and Vincent had many discussions on that very subject 
and Katie came to see his viewpoint--that birth could be 
painfree and safe.  Having seen a few babies and mothers
die due to complications in home deliveries, Katie knew
that she wanted to have her baby in a hospital where
she believed she could get the best medical care.  

Katie still thanked God that she and Mulder had made
that decision.  The outcome of Mairead's birth could 
have been disastrous.

"I feel as if I've been wrapped in cotton batting, 
Shayna.  Life here bears no resemblance to the real
world."

"I should have such problems," Shayna said, laughing.

"I mean it," Katie said, sitting forward.  "All the
edges are smoothed out for these people.  Tell me 
what's happening in the real world, Shayna.  How are
things at the settlement house?"

"Oy, don't ask.  That Mr. Blevins is a real schmuck."

"You don't have to convince me of that," Katie said.

"What he did to you was only the beginning.  He brought
in that awful Nurse Innes to replace you--a real witch 
if you ask me.  They're changing everything."

"Change isn't always bad," Katie offered.  

"In this case, it stinks like fish that's sat out
for a week.  They cut out Mrs. Tibby's plays...said 
they were a waste of time.  And worst of all, they 
stopped the Monday clinic.  Said the people could 
go to the clinic down at Bellevue if they needed a 
doctor."

"That's terrible," Katie said.  "Bellevue's clinic 
is overcrowded.  People wait for hours...sometimes 
for days to see a doctor."

Katie would think about Shayna's news over the next 
few weeks and she would remember the past.  Though 
they were better off than a lot of their neighbors, 
the Scullys had gone through several years of poverty 
after William Scully's fishing boat had been damaged.

When she was nine years old, Katie had spent the day
tagging along with her father as he worked on the boat.
She loved spending time with Da.  He made her feel 
useful, giving her small tasks and praising her 
efforts--so unlike Ma, who tended to criticize when 
Katie's efforts weren't up to her mother's high standards.  

While she helped Da plane wood on the boat, a large sliver 
became embedded in Katie's forearm.  Since it didn't hurt 
much and she was enjoying herself so much, she ignored it.  
In fact, the sliver didn't bother Katie for several days 
until the skin around it became red and swollen hot.

Ma was angry when Katie finally showed her the arm, but 
she knew the child needed medical attention.  Unfortunately, 
a private physician was out of the question, so Maggie 
brought Katie to the charity clinic.  Katie would never
forget the crowding, the sounds of children crying, 
the smell of vomit and urine.  

Katie remembered the doctor poking and prodding her swollen 
arm, removing the splinter and treating the wound with 
something that stung and burned.  She'd fought the urge to
cry, not wanting to cry in front of strangers or her
mother, who didn't have patience for tears.

But what Katie remembered most vividly was the nurse clucking
over her freckled little arm and the doctor chiding Maggie
for letting her child's wound become infected.  It didn't 
matter that Maggie hadn't known about the injury for days
because Katie hadn't told anyone.  Katie had never seen her 
mother so completely mortified as when the doctor remarked 
to the nurse that "I suppose it's what one would expect 
with people who live in filth."

To describe the Scully home as filthy was an enormous 
untruth.  With a crowd of active young children and a
husband who made his living catching fish, Maggie worked 
very hard to keep her home immaculate.  Maggie's hands 
were perpetually red from the strong soap she used to 
scrub floors and wash clothes.

Katie remembered walking home with her mother, who kept
her face turned away.  Katie had thought her mother
was angry at her until she caught the glimmer of tears 
in Maggie's eyes.  Seeing how badly the doctor had 
hurt her mother was far more painful to Katie than the
stinging of her arm.  In many ways, that fateful visit 
to the charity clinic was responsible for Katie's nursing 
career, as she vowed to treat patients with dignity and 
compassion.  

By the time Mairead was four months old, Katie felt her
nursing career growing distant, as her time was taken up 
by luncheons, tea parties, museum openings and musicales.
Finally out of formal mourning, the Mulders returned to 
the New York social scene.  

Teena seemed to be coming out of the cocoon of her grief.  
She warmed and lightened in the company of her friends.  
Katie had been worried about her mother-in-law through 
the long months of mourning, so the changes in Teena 
were a relief.

And with Mairead in the care of Miss Muir, Katie had no 
excuse for not attending most of the social events.  
It wasn't that the social obligations were completely 
obnoxious.  While Mrs. Schuyler, Mrs. Cortlandt and many
of the others were still frosty, Katie was developing
fledgling friendships with some of the younger women.

But the gatherings lacked purpose.  Katie was used to a 
life of service and though the women did good works, 
their efforts were, for the most part, indirect.  
Society was perfectly willing to donate money, but 
they'd rather not actually meet any poor people.

Katie didn't mind the evening events quite as much.  
Mulder was there to whisper irreverent comments into her
ear.  She felt loved and protected when she was on
Mulder's arm.  Katie found herself rather enjoying 
opening nights at the Metropolitan Opera.  She didn't
understand what was being sung, but the majesty of
the voices was thrilling.

Of course, most of society wasn't there to hear the
music.  They went to the opera to see and be seen.  
Like many of the wealthy, the Mulders had their own
box.   While Katie leaned forward to get a better
view of the magnificent stage, she was well aware
that many eyes were taking in the sight of the
upstart young Mrs. Mulder.

It was after one of these evenings that Katie sat up
in bed, nursing Mairead.  Propped on one elbow, Mulder
lay watching them in what was apparently his favorite
ritual.  

"Did you enjoy yourself, tonight?" he asked as he 
twisted one of Katie's long auburn curls around his
finger.  They'd seen the world premiere of Puccini's 
"La Fanciulla del West" that night.

"I did, indeed.  Hard to believe--an opera about the 
Old West sung in Italian."  

"One can only imagine what real cowboys would have 
made of that," Mulder laughed.

"I liked it a lot more than the German opera we
saw last month.  The Valkyries scared me."

"The Valkyries scare everyone."

Mairead's mouth had gone slack as she fell asleep.
Katie nudged the baby's chin with one finger to see 
if she'd start suckling again, but Mairead was 
finished for the night.  Mulder took the child from
her as she tied up the ribbons of her nightdress.

Careful so as not to wake her, Mulder carried
Mairead out of the room and across the hall.  Katie
and Mulder had decided not to use the nursery one
floor above as they didn't want their child to be
so far away.  Instead, they'd had Samantha's suite
of rooms across the hall made over for Mairead and
Miss Muir.  

Mulder returned and climbed back onto the bed.  This
was Katie's favorite part of the day, privately
reconnecting with her husband at the end of a long 
day.  

"I think she gets prettier every day," Mulder said.
"Just like her mother."

"You're biased, Mulder," Katie said, tapping his 
nose with one finger, and sliding down in the bed.

"Perhaps," he agreed.  "Though according to Mother,
you're taking New York society by storm."

"By storm?"

"A possible exaggeration," he admitted.  "But Mother
did say you were going to the art show with young
Mrs. Schroeder."

"That's true," Katie said.  "I like Camilla.  She isn't
stuffy at all.  I just wish..."

"What, love?"

"I don't know.  I should be happy that some of the 
younger women seem to accept me--I am, really.  
It's just that the tea parties and luncheons seem 
so pointless."

"I know all this social nonsense can be boring.  
But good works are being done, aren't they?"

"Certainly," Katie agreed.  "But it's all sanitized
and distanced.  I can't imagine how the ladies
could react to a real live poor person in their 
midst."

"You miss working with the poor, don't you?" Mulder
asked.  He knew her so well, it nearly brought tears
to her eyes.

"I do, Mulder.  I really do."

"Then why don't you go back?" he asked.  

"They've changed the settlement house--I don't
think I could stand dealing with Mr. Blevins
again."

"Then we'll buy the settlement house and throw
Blevins out into the street.  Or you can start 
something new.  Katie, I don't think you realize
the power you have now.  With the Mulder money,
you have limitless resources at your hands."

"Oh, Mulder," Katie said, launching herself into
his arms.  "Thank you!"

"You're welcome," he laughed.  "But, really, it's 
nothing."

"It's not just the money," she said.  "I'm so
grateful for you, love.  For knowing me the way you
do--for knowing what's important to me and giving me 
the freedom to do what I need to do."

Arms around his neck, Katie peppered Mulder's face
with kisses, finally pressing a particularly tender
one to his smiling lips.  Mulder gazed at her, 
emotion raw in his eyes.  His fingers tangled in her
hair as he kissed her hungrily.  

Katie's hands stroked over Mulder's back, glorying
in the sensation of his arms around her.  It had
been so very long, since before the baby.  How had
she survived without this heat pulsing through her
veins?

She didn't need the evidence of his erection pressed
against her hip to tell her that Mulder wanted her.
She'd caught Mulder watching her sometimes, with 
what she'd hoped was desire, but he hadn't done more
than kiss her since before Mairead's birth.

"Oh, Mulder," she repeated, breathing the words
into his mouth.  His hands gripped her arms, holding
her tight.  She'd missed this so much.  She'd done
her best to tell Mulder that, once Dr. Speake had
declared her body healed, but for a brilliant
man, he'd seemed extraordinarily obtuse.  

"I love you, Katie, love you," Mulder mumbled the
words between kisses.  His hands tightened on her
upper arms before suddenly pushing away from her
and flopping onto his back.  "I can't.  Things
are...things are different."

"Different?" she asked.  Katie pushed herself from 
the bed and stood, trying to control the trembling 
that had little to do with the temperature in the
room.  "I don't understand..."

"I love you, Katie.  You have to know that."  Mulder 
sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.  
He leaned forward, his hands loosely clasped between
his knees.

"Of course, I know that.  Mulder...tell me what's 
the matter?"

"I don't want to hurt you."  

"You think things have changed because of the baby,
don't you.  That I'm not the way I was before."

"You almost died, Katie."  Mulder was on his feet
in a moment, moving around the room as if the memory
of that day was chasing him.

"Dr. Speake said I'm perfectly fine, Mulder."

He stopped pacing and turned to face her, one hand
pushing impatiently through his hair.  "I know
what Dr. Speake said, Katie, but I also remember 
that you almost bled to death."

Katie reached out and caught his restless hand, 
squeezing it between hers.  "The human body is an 
amazing thing, Mulder.  You cut your hand and in a 
few weeks, it heals as smooth and strong as ever.  
I have a baby and a few months later, I'm as good 
as new."

"You could...you could get pregnant again, Katie.  
It's too soon."  

"There's a simple solution to that problem."  If that
was, indeed, his real concern.  She knew he loved
her, but what if he no longer felt desire for her.

He swallowed hard, his hand tracing along her collarbone.
With her eyes on him, Katie untied the ribbon on her
nightdress.  There was only one way for her to tell if
Mulder's reticence was more than just worry about her
health.  The nightgown slid over her shoulders to 
pool at her feet in a white muslin cloud.

His eyes traveled the length of her body, and she 
realized this was the first time he'd seen her completely
naked since Mairead was born.  Barely taking his eyes
from her, he reached into the dresser drawer and found
what he was looking for.  "How long do these last?"
he asked, looking down at the object in his hand.  "I
mean, it's from before..."

"Mulder.  Look at me," she said.  "It's all right.  We
don't have to do this if you don't want to."

"I do," he said.  "I do want to."

"Please, love," she said.  "Stop worrying and kiss me."

Mulder did as he was told and kissed her soundly.  His
hands were gentle as they touched her and when he entered
her, Katie was sure he wasn't breathing.  He only started
to move when she urged him on with her body.  Even then,
his movements were careful and measured.  Katie held him
as he climaxed within her, his breath ragged in her ear.

Later that night, Katie watched Mulder as he slept and 
remembered the first time they ever made love.  Would 
things ever be the way they were back then?  

A week later, Katie was still musing over the physical 
aspects of her marriage as she bathed one evening.  She
and Mulder were going to attend Mrs. Schuyler's birthday
ball.  

She would never tire of taking baths in this lovely warm
bathroom.  Sitting in enough water to cover her practically
up to her shoulders, Katie tried to calm the nerves that
always plagued her before large social events.  

She stood and the rose-scented water sluiced down her 
body.  Mulder would prefer for her to have a maid assist 
her with bathing and dressing, but Katie hadn't gotten
used to having others "do" for her.  Unless she was 
wearing something complicated, Katie dressed herself.

Climbing out of the tub, Katie wrapped herself in a 
bath towel and walked into the dressing room.  As she
lowered the towel, she studied herself in the mirror.
She'd lost the roundness in her face, much to her 
relief.  Katie had been sure she would go through 
life with a face resembling the full moon.  

Though far from plump now, Katie's hips were rounder 
than they used to be and it didn't seem that her stomach 
was ever going to be as flat as before Mairead.  It 
felt as if her body belonged to someone else.  
 
She pulled on her stockings and her undergarments
before calling her maid, Daisy, in to help her with 
her gown.

"Oh, Mrs. Mulder," Daisy said, as she gathered up the 
blue satin fabric of the gown.  "This is just
lovely."

"Thank you," Katie answered as they smoothed the dress
over her body.  It really was beautiful, with an empire
waist and crystal beading at the bodice.  

"It's almost the same color as your eyes.  Mr. Mulder
is going to be swept off his feet."

Daisy helped Katie arrange her thick auburn hair atop
her head in a style that she was sure would result in
a throbbing headache by evening's end.  More and more,
Katie was tempted to cut it all off.  It took hours
to dry and Katie could only imagine how much easier 
it would be if the length of it was lopped off.  

Mulder came into the room, just as Daisy was helping
her fasten the diamond and sapphire necklace that had
been Katie's birthday present.  

"You look...absolutely breathtaking," Mulder said. 
Katie blushed as she applied a bit of powder to the
freckles on her nose.  

"You look...not at all ready," she responded.  Mulder
was still in the business suit he'd worn all day at
work.

"I know, I know.  I was held up at the office," Mulder
said, bestowing a hasty peck on Katie's cheek.  "I'll
hurry.  Why don't you check in on Mother while I get 
ready?"

Katie did as he suggested and knocked on Teena's door.
Gretchen, Teena's maid, opened the door and ushered 
her in where she found her mother-in-law, looking elegant 
and composed in black lace.   

"Katherine, you look very nice, dear.  Is Fox rushing to
get ready?  That boy has always tried to pack too
much into one day."

The women went down to the drawing room to wait for 
Mulder, who hurried into the room a few minutes later.
His hair was still damp, and he smelled of soap when
he helped Katie on with her wrap.  

The Schuyler house was decorated lavishly with flowers
and yards and yards of silver tulle.  If Katie was
overwhelmed with the lavishness of the Mulder house, she
was simply dumbstruck with the luxury of the Schuyler 
home.  

As the guests arrived, a footman dressed as a court jester
handed them elaborate versions of children's party hats.
Katie's was a conical fairy princess hat with cascading
ribbons and gossamer.  Mulder was given a Viking hat with
gold papier mache horns. 

"Do I look frightening?" Mulder asked after he settled the
hat on his head.

"You look silly," Katie teased.  "Besides, I'm only afraid
of Valkyries."

Waiters circulated, offering champagne in crystal flutes.  
Katie sipped hers, wrinkling her nose at the taste.  Every
time she looked at the bubbly gold liquid, she somehow 
imagined it as sweet and was disappointed each time.  Mulder 
laughed indulgently at the face she made.

"You don't have to drink it if you don't like it, 
love," he said.  "I'll ask the waiter for some ginger
ale."

"I've always heard people talk about French champagne.  
Somehow, I thought it would taste better."

She carried her glass along into the ballroom where an 
orchestra played a waltz.  Couples swirled around the
dance floor, all in their party hats.  Katie watched 
them apprehensively.  Mulder had taught her to dance in the 
privacy of their bedroom, but she still felt awkward.  

Placing their glasses on a passing waiter's tray, Mulder
took her hand and drew her out onto the dance floor.  
Katie forgot to breathe as he swept her up in his arms.
Her apprehension melted away as Mulder held her close.
With his natural grace, he guided her and she found 
herself enjoying the movement and the music.

The orchestra played waltz after waltz with the occasional
polka, since Mrs. Schuyler preferred the traditional dances.  
Mulder told Katie that after their hostess retired to the 
drawing room with the other matrons to gossip and sip sherry, 
the dancing would change to the livelier foxtrot and 
Castle walk.  

Katie and Mulder danced with other partners, but Katie
was always glad to return to her husband.  None of the
other gentlemen moved the way Mulder did.  It was almost
as if he could intuit her every step.

It was nearing midnight when Mulder's prediction came
to pass.  Mrs. Schuyler, Teena, and the other older women  
retreated to the parlor and the younger guests reigned over 
the ballroom.  The Castle walk was much more intimidating 
than the waltz, but with Mulder's guidance, Katie gave it 
a try, resulting in much laughter and missed steps.  It 
took three or four numbers before Katie managed to pick 
up the steps and dance them with some semblance of grace.

Flushed from the exertion of dancing, Katie excused 
herself so she could freshen up.  As she left the powder
room, she met Teena Mulder.

"Katherine, dear, I was just looking for you," her 
mother-in-law said.  "I'm afraid I've grown rather tired.  
I'll have Dunham drive me home and send him back to wait 
for you and Fox."
 
Teena did look exhausted when Katie took a closer look
at her.  Grief had diminished her stamina.  Katie 
hoped that as time went on, Teena would regain some of
her vitality.

Katie returned to the ballroom, but couldn't find Mulder.  
She spotted Camilla Schroeder talking to a few of the young 
married women.  Katie was greeted warmly, something she 
wouldn't have dreamed possible a few months ago.  

"Isn't this a thrilling party, Katie?" Camilla asked. 

"Most definitely," Katie answered, surprised to find
that to be the truth.  "Have you seen Fox?"

"I think he's over by the terrace," Camilla said, 
nodding her head in that direction.  One wall of the
ballroom was banked with doors that had been opened
to the evening air.

Katie took her leave, and set off to find Mulder so
she could tell him that his mother had gone home.
She spotted him standing on the terrace just outside 
the door.  Katie stopped in her tracks when she saw
who he was speaking with.  Diana Fowley.

She'd been aware of the other woman's presence at the 
ball, but Diana hadn't been among the dancers. 
Dressed in deep purple and wearing a diamond necklace that 
glittered like ice, Diana looked regally elegant.  She 
was gazing up at Mulder with an intensity that made 
Katie's mouth go dry.

Katie felt as if she was watching a scene at the picture
show, trying to follow the story without benefit of
the dialogue cards.  Mulder's expressive face changed
from disdainful to neutral to intent.  Katie found
herself unable to move, as if her feet were rooted to 
the floor.  

Finally, breaking out of her frozen state, she turned and 
left the room.  As she reached the hallway, Katie stopped
and scolded herself.  She was being foolish.  Her husband
was merely talking to someone.  One couldn't even describe
that person as a friend.  There was no reason for her 
to feel so threatened.  Katie returned to the ballroom
and tried to control her breathing.

She had managed to convince herself that it meant nothing
when Mulder found her.  She didn't want to study his
face, but she couldn't help herself.  

"There you are," he said, as he put his arm around her.

"Where were you?" she asked.  "I wanted to tell you that
your mother went home."

"I was out on the terrace taking in the evening air.  It's
gotten quite warm in here."

"Who were you talking to, Mulder?" she asked, holding her
breath.

"No one in particular.  Is everything all right, Katie?" he 
asked.    

"I'm just tired," she answered.  "I think I'd like to go
home now." 

******************************* 

"Such beautiful hair, Madame.   A crown of glory, as
they say."

"Thank you, Pierre."

"I should not be telling you this, but only yesterday
Mademoiselle Cortlandt, she asked me to make her the
hair like yours."

"Miss Cortlandt's hair is lovely as it is," said
Katie.  

"You are too kind, Madame, but I thank you," said
Pierre modestly.

Katie couldn't remember Lillian Cortlandt's latest
hairstyle.  Something elaborate, no doubt, held in
place with jeweled combs and pins.  Her compliment,
though, was no more of a deception than Pierre's
French accent.  She remembered him quite distinctly as
her father's old barber, Peter Boulay of Delancey
Street.

"If she knew how long it takes to get it dried and
curled, I'm sure she'd think twice," Katie said.  The
first time she'd entered Pierre's exclusive shop,
she'd felt positively sinful to be paying so much for
someone to arrange her hair.  In no time, she'd come
to view Pierre's services as a necessity.   Planning
and establishing the clinic was taking up every ounce
of energy that didn't go toward her daughter and
husband, and the hours she spent with Pierre were a
rest and a relief.

"Madame is fortunate.  For most ladies, it needs
peroxide, henna and false curls to have the beautiful
hair like yours."

Katie was going to answer with a platitude about
vanity, but instead she frowned.  Even without bleach
or hair additions, her "crown of glory" was a decided
nuisance.

"Pierre . . . I've been thinking about lopping it all
off," she said.

Pierre put down the curling iron and took a step
backwards.  

"I believe that could be most becoming," he said,
after a moment of study.

"You do?"

"And what I cut, I could make for you hairpieces. 
When you want it long, it is long.  But for the
everyday, it is short."

"Do it," she commanded.

She felt freedom with the first slice of his shears,
and then some regrets.  Pierre hummed with pride as he
worked, snipping carefully, pausing frequently to
consider his next move.

"It's very short," Katie observed.

"Oui.  Short and blunt, a frame for your face."

Indeed, it curved around her cheekbones, the auburn strands 
grazing Katie's jawline.   The curls, now freed from the 
weight of almost two feet of hair, were like a bright cloud.  
It was both wonderful and shocking.

Kate hoped she hadn't made a mistake, and consoled
herself that it was only hair and would grow again.  

"Please tell all the world where your hair was
styled," Pierre reminded her as she left the shop.

Her head felt noticeably lighter and her neck felt
cool as she got into the Rolls.  She couldn't decide
if she liked the new look.  She wondered how Mulder
would react.

"Dr. Vitigliano's office," she directed Dunham, the
chauffeur, before he closed her door.

"Yes, madam," he said.    

Vincent had agreed to assist her in starting the
clinic, although he had yet to accept directorship. 
Katie tried to entice him with the promise that they
could provide any service he deemed worthwhile, but he
professed himself unequal to the position.  

Katie had to wait for Vincent in his consultation room, 
which gave her time to read through his latest proposals.  
Her years in the settlement house and her visits to the
tenements had given her more than an introduction into
poverty and squalor, but Vincent had succeeded in
shocking her.

"Busy morning," he explained when he joined her at
last.  He glanced at Katie, his face betraying his 
surprise at her appearance, though he said nothing.

"My God, Vincent, I had no idea such things existed,"
she said, holding up his handwritten notes.

He sighed as he sat down behind his large cherrywood
desk.  

"Well, you encouraged me to tell you what was needed. 
I don't suppose your husband will want his wife or his
money associated with people like this."

"People like this?  They're children!"

"Only in years."  He looked suddenly apologetic.  "I'm
sorry I've upset you.  But you did press me to tell
you about everyone who needed help."

"It's monstrous, Vincent.  Children working as
prostitutes--girls, and boys too!  We're going to put
a stop to this."

"By opening a clinic?  Katie, this clinic will take
everything you have to give it, and maybe more.  Don't
try to take on the whole world, because you can only
fail."

Vincent's resigned calm was unnerving, but she knew he
was being realistic.  Even Mulder's limitless money
couldn't cure every ill. Katie began to wonder if she
had the experience or the expertise to establish and
run the clinic.  She knew nursing, and Vincent knew
medicine, but maybe that wasn't enough.

She needed someone with the brains, strength and
humankindness to turn the clinic into a reality.  Most
days Katie returned home to take luncheon with her
mother-in-law, but today she decided to pay a call on
a wealthy philanthropist of her acquaintance.   

"Mulder and Traut," she told Dunham, as he held the
car door for her.

Morris Fletcher looked up from his desk as she walked
in.

"Good morning, Mrs. Mulder.  I'll tell Mr. Mulder that
you're here," Fletcher greeted her.  He sounded
sullen rather than cheeky, and Katie guessed that he'd
been the recent recipient of a dressing-down.  When
Fletcher picked up the telephone, rather than rapping
on the door, Katie knew that Mulder wasn't alone.

Nevertheless, she didn't have long to wait before
Mulder threw open the door.  A young man nodded
politely as he left the office.

"Keep me apprised, Alex," Mulder called over her
shoulder as he ushered her in.  

"I hoped you'd have time to see me," Katie said.  It
wasn't her habit to venture into his domain.

"Always.  See you, admire you, worship at your feet..."  

Indeed, he seemed positively fascinated.

"Oh!  I got a new hairstyle," she said, turning her 
head.

"So, I noticed," he said.  "It's different.  But I 
like it."

"I'm glad."  

"It makes me want to kiss your neck."

Katie laughed.  She had worried he'd be displeased.

"All right.  Just one," she teased.

Mulder stood behind her, his hands circling her waist.  
She felt his warm breath on her bare neck followed by 
his soft lips.  A tiny moan escaped her lips.  The
return of physical closeness had been a welcome relief
for Katie.  It was hard to remember why she'd had any
doubts about Mulder when he made such tender and 
passionate love to her.

"Mm," Mulder mumbled against her skin.  "Please tell 
me we're staying home tonight."

"Mulder!  Does this mean you'll be leaving work on
time for once?"

"Chances are good.  Did you come by for lunch, or just
to show off your haircut?"

"Both.  But also something else."

They ate lunch in the private dining room.

"One day I'll make you take me to the main room,"
Katie said, knowing that no woman had ever been
permitted there.

"We'll go right now, if you're serious."

Katie knew she could take him at his word, and the
stuffy bankers would have to tolerate it.  Would it
really make a difference, though?

"Perhaps it will get them ready for the day that
Mairead takes over," she mused.

"Only if she wants to," Mulder said softly.

After the waiter served the roast duckling with
currants, Katie raised the concern that had prompted
her visit.

"I don't think I can run the clinic on my own.  The
settlement house was smaller, and even there I was
more of a manager than an executive."

"We'll hire all the help you need.  Just tell me who
you want."

"You, Mulder.  I want you."

"Me?"

"I know how busy you are, but this wouldn't have to
take up much of your time.  Perhaps a few hours a
week, to oversee the organization, to glance over the
expenditures?"

He protested at first that she didn't give herself
enough credit, but soon he capitulated.

"We'll be working together.  I like that part," he
said.

"I do too."  Her work was important to her, and she
wanted Mulder to be part of it.  "I wish I understood
more about what you do," she added.

Mulder groaned.  

"These last weeks, most of what I've done is try to
untangle and undo everything DT has done."

"Oh, dear," Katie said sympathetically.  She noted
with pride that her young husband, who had once
regarded his "Uncle Dewitt" with doglike devotion, 
now had the confidence to criticize him.

"Unfortunately my dear partner has what he calls the
worst luck when it comes to choosing railroads and
mining ventures.  In vain I've tried to tell him that
you should never back a railroad without at the least
tracing its route on a map."

"So you've been selling his purchases?"

"If only it was that easy.  I have to say, though,
that Alex has made himself tremendously useful."

"Oh, the man you were talking with when I dropped in."

"He's thorough and diligent.   I made him my senior
investment consultant, and  Morris Fletcher's been in 
a low boil ever since."

"Morris thinks he deserved the promotion?  I think you
only keep him on so you can torment him."

"Morris thought he had it in the bag.  And I keep him
on because he's punctual, and never forgets my
coffee."

Neither of them finished their duckling, and Mulder
waved off the remaining courses.

"I'll fall asleep at my desk if I eat all this," he
said.  

"I'll let you go back to work, and I'll go home and
see our baby," Katie said, rising from the table.

"Give her a kiss for me."

Mairead was napping when Katie returned home, sprawled
in a posture of total relaxation, her arms stretched
over her head.  The child slept like an angel,
although she usually awoke in an awful humor, fussing
and crying despite all efforts to console her.  Miss
Muir was confident she'd grow out of it; Maggie smugly
informed Katie that she'd been exactly that way
herself.

Katie tiptoed from the nursery and made her way to the
dining room.  Teena rarely complained about dining
alone, but Katie felt guilty.  She would join her at
the table to keep her company.  Katie remembered her
drastic new hairstyle and wondered how her
mother-in-law would react.  It would be best to let
Teena voice her horror now, when Mulder could be
spared.

But Teena wasn't alone.  Even before she entered the
room Katie heard them talking, the deep sound of a
man's voice alternating with Teena's.  And even before
she heard them, she smelled the cigarette.  Margaret
Scully didn't allow smoking during meals, nor did
Shayna Berkowitz, but here in the Mulder mansion, with
its fine china and sterling silver, a man sat at the
table smoking his cigarette as Edgar removed his plate
and replaced it with another.

"I see you have company, Mother Mulder," Katie said.  

"Katherine!  Oh my goodness!"  Teena gaped at Katie's
head as she patted her own hair.  "What on earth have
you done?"

"It's quite becoming," the man said as he stood up,
still holding his cigarette.

"Thank you," Katie replied, cautiously.  This was the
man who had struck up a conversation with her in the
drugstore on her honeymoon.  She remembered how alarmed
Mulder had been when she told him about the stranger
and now he was having lunch with Teena as if he had a 
right to sit at the head of the table.

"Your mother-in-law wasn't sure if you were planning
to join us.  I'm sorry we didn't wait," he said
gallantly.

"Quite all right.  I've eaten," Katie stammered.

"Katherine, I'm sure you've met Cornelius Spender. 
Cornelius, my daughter-in-law, Katherine."

Smoothly Spender switched his cigarette to his left
hand as Katie managed to extend her right.

"Congratulations on your beautiful daughter.  I see
now where she gets her fine features," he said.

"Thank you," Katie answered stiffly.  

"Oh, you're mistaken.  Little Margaret looks exactly
as her father did, at that age," Teena said.

"I don't think so, Teena."  He brought his cigarette
to his lips and inhaled deeply.  "I think Mairead is
the very image of her mother."

"I think she resembles both of us, actually," Katie
said.  "If you'll excuse me, I should leave you two 
to your visit."

"Nonsense, dear," Teena said.  "Join us for coffee
in the drawing room."

As Teena gave instructions to Edgar, Spender took
Katie's elbow and escorted her from the room.  

"It's so very good to see you again, Katherine.  I
knew the moment I met you last summer that you and
Fox were perfectly suited."

"That's a rather fanciful notion," she said.  "You 
don't know me."

Slipping from Spender's grasp, Katie moved into 
the drawing room, putting the coffee table between
them.

"Ah yes, but I do know Fox.  In fact, I knew his
parents since before he was born.  I daresay I
understand Fox better than Bill Mulder did."

Before Katie was able to form a reply, Teena was
back, trailed by Edgar bearing a large tray.  
Spender sat beside Teena on the settee, leaving
Katie to observe them as they reminisced.

"Do you remember that summer at Newport, Teena?"

"How could I forget," she laughed.  "The way you
and William carried on.  Swimming races, sailing
races, foot races.  One would have thought you
were two boys instead of grown men."

Spender smiled at the memory and sipped his coffee.

"I remember you standing at the shore in that 
sweet yellow frock.  I'd never seen anything so
fresh and lovely in my life."

Teena was like a flower, blooming under Spender's
attention.  She blushed like a schoolgirl.  Teena
actually giggled when Spender told a funny story.  
Katie couldn't ever remember hearing that sound from 
her mother-in-law and found it rather unnerving.

Katie was relieved when she heard the faint sound of
Mairead's cries.  

"If you'll excuse me," Katie said, rising from 
her chair.  "Mairead must be up from her nap."

"I don't hear anything," Teena said.  

"She's crying," Katie said.  "I should check on her."  

"You'll spoil that child, Katherine," Teena said.

"I'm sure you're right," Katie said, wryly, as she
left the room.  

Hurrying up the stairs, Katie was grateful for her
cranky baby.  Mairead's cheeks were rosy from sleep
and she dug her chubby fists into her eyes as she
cried and struggled to wake.  Katie gathered the fussy 
child in her arms, holding her a little tighter than
was truly necessary as she tried to quiet her.  That
man had seen her baby--probably touched her soft skin.
The thought of that left Katie feeling vaguely queasy.

Mulder came home early as he'd promised.  Before dinner,
he sat on the nursery floor and played with Mairead,
helping her as she dropped clothespins into a copper
mixing bowl from the kitchen.  At seven months old,
Mairead had shelves of expensive dolls and toys but
she seemed to prefer playing with simple household
items, much to her father's amazement and her 
grandmother's horror.

"Your mother had a luncheon guest," Katie said as
she sank down beside Mulder and Mairead.  

"That's nice," Mulder said.  "It's good for her to
spend time with her friends."

"He was someone I'd met before.  It was the man 
who approached me in the drugstore on our honeymoon."

"Why...why would he be here?" Mulder stammered as 
the gravity of the situation sunk in.  

"Apparently, he's known your parents for many years.
He and your mother reminisced for hours."

Mulder pushed himself off the floor, startling the
baby who began to cry.  Mulder ran nervous fingers
through his hair as he paced the nursery.

"He's an unsavory character according to Uncle Dewitt.
I don't like the idea of his being here with Mother."

Katie gathered up Mairead and rose to face her husband.

"He saw the baby," Katie said, softly.  

"I have to talk to my mother," Mulder said, as he headed
for the door."

"Mulder," Katie said, touching his arm as he turned to
face her.  "Be careful with her.  She's still rather
fragile."

Her warning only added to his irritation.

"I'm trying to protect her," he answered impatiently.

Katie settled herself and the baby into the rocker to
wait for his return.  Maggie had rocked her children
to mournful tunes about deaths and farewells, but
Katie forced herself to croon something cheerful.

"Cuddle up a little closer, lovey mine.  Cuddle up and
be my little clinging vine. . ."

Mulder was quiet and serious when he returned, but
Katie didn't ask what had transpired.  They put
Mairead in her crib, and Katie traced a cross on her 
forehead to bless her.  In his mesmerizing drone, Mulder
told her the story of a tiny little choo-choo with
broken wheels and overgrown tracks that went nowhere,
and how Uncle Dewitt decided to buy it.  As always,
Mairead fought off her sleepiness as long as she
could.  

Katie and Mulder were late to the table, and Teena was
missing entirely, having taken to her room with a
splitting headache.

"I'm hardly surprised," Mulder said.

"Did you argue?" Katie asked.

"I thought I was very gentle.  I asked her about her
visitor, and she said he was a dear friend who could
share happy memories with her.  I said I would like to
know more about this dear friend, and she said my
suspicious nature was a reproach to my poor father."

"Oh, Mulder."

"I know, Katie, you warned me she was fragile."  He
sighed.  "Perhaps you can check in on her later."

Katie nodded, although she felt not a little
suspicious herself.  Teena's splitting headache was
awfully convenient.

"What did DT have to say about Mr. Spender?" she
asked.

"DT loves to talk in riddles.  I take it that
Spender's financial practices range from the
unscrupulous to the felonious, but Dewitt left the
details to my imagination."

"A robber baron," Katie concluded.  She comforted
herself that the smoking man was a crook, but no
threat to her family.  Yet she couldn't shake her
uneasiness.

"I'll release Skinner from his duties at the office. 
He'll find plenty to do here."

"I thought you needed him at work," Katie asked, with
a small smile.  "Or was that an excuse to break up the
steamy affair you were sure we were carrying on?"

Mulder was too preoccupied to appreciate her humor.

"It's painful to know that my personal secretary will
enjoy more time with you than I do, but I want him
available at home."

"But what do you want him to do?  He can't keep Mr.
Spender out of the house if your mother welcomes him
in."

"He can see that Mairead is safe.  And you.  He can
hire additional men, if they're needed."

Mulder's intensity was unsettling.

"Do you think Spender means to hurt us?  Mulder, is
there something more that you're not telling me?"
Katie asked.

"Let me take care of this, Katie.  You know I couldn't
go on if something happened to you or the baby."

"I think you're over-reacting, love.  I'll admit he's
a bit unsettling, but surely, he isn't a threat to us."

"Don't underestimate him, Katie.  He'd a dangerous 
man."

Katie would think of Mulder's warnings over the 
next few months.  Mr. Spender called on Teena often,
always during the day when Mulder was at work.  Katie
felt safer with Skinner around.  He was awkward around
Mairead, though the child seemed quite taken with him.

Though Katie had been sure he would be bored, Skinner 
didn't seem to mind his bodyguard detail.   After the
first time she came upon Skinner deep in conversation
with Miss Muir, Katie no longer wondered why.  

Katie would look back on this time with great fondness.
Spending so much time with Mulder reminded her of their
courtship.  Over many meals, she and Mulder talked with
Vincent about what the clinic would need.

Katie's days were filled with preparations for the 
new clinic.  Mulder helped her scout out a location.
With his familiarity with the neighborhoods, Mulder
brought her to a number of possible buildings.  They
planned to purchase the building and not lease so that 
the clinic could remain autonomous.

Mulder amazed her.  His business acumen was so sharp,
his instincts so honed as to be able to sniff out the
smallest flaw.   One storefront was too near the police
station and might frighten off some of the patients.
One building had a crumbling bricks in the basement
indicating water damage.

Finally, they found the perfect building on Second
Avenue.  Formerly a small factory, the building 
had enough space for treatment rooms, offices and 
a ward for patients who needed to stay overnight.   

The true selling point for Katie were the upper floors
that offered room for expansion.  That the clinic would
serve the community's need for health care was
a given, but Katie had dreams beyond that.  Maybe there 
would be classrooms or workshops on the upper floors, or
maybe they would house women and children who needed an
escape from abusive homes.  Katie would start with the 
clinic and see what else was possible.

Mulder's fortune seemed to make all things possible. 
From the purchase of the building, to renovations and 
outfitting of the clinic with furniture and supplies,
things progressed at lightning speed.  Staff needed to
be hired.  Vincent recruited Dr. Oppenheim to join them
and Katie discovered that Rebecca Waite, the nurse who had
taken such good care of William Mulder, was interested in 
a permanent position.  

Shayna Berkowitz rounded out the staff, taking over the 
day to day tasks of ordering supplies and keeping everyone 
on schedule.  Shayna was in her element, arguing with 
merchants, nagging doctors and bossing everyone else.  

Before Katie could believe it, she stood on the sidewalk on 
a sunny autumn afternoon and cut the ribbon on the Second 
Avenue Clinic.

Shayna was their one-woman announcement service for the clinic 
and she spread the news that medical help was available in a 
clean, compassionate environment.  Of course, Shayna didn't 
word it in quite that way.  It was more "What?  You enjoy 
schlepping over to Bellevue so they can treat you a dog?  
No, you'll come over to the Second Avenue Clinic and get 
treated like a regular person."

By early autumn, the clinic was busy with patients, mostly
poor working families.  They treated measles and mumps, boils
and abscesses and ear aches.  They cared for pregnant women 
and new babies, injured factory workers and children who 
needed to be inoculated against small pox before they could 
go to school.

A young boy came into the clinic one day, cradling his arm
close to his body.  His head down, all Katie could see at
first was a hank of sandy brown hair.  It was only when
he looked up that Katie recognized familiar bright blue 
eyes.  

"Kevin," she said, taking in a scrape along his jaw
and the bruise on one cheekbone.  "What on earth happened
to you?"

"I fell," he answered.  His eyes were guarded at first, 
softening a little upon recognition.   "I din't know ya 
worked here now, Miss Katie."  

"You must have had a very bad spill to hurt your arm
like this," she said, gently.  "Let's let Dr. Vitigliano
take a look at you."

Katie ushered the boy into the examining room.  

"Dr. Vitigliano, this is Kevin Kryder," she said.  "He 
hurt his arm in a fall."

Helping the boy off with his shirt, Katie shot a glance 
at Vincent as she noted more bruises on his arms.  Kevin 
cried out as the doctor attempted to move the injured
arm.

"I'm going to have to move your shoulder back into place,"
Vincent said.  "I'm afraid it's going to hurt for a moment,
but then it will feel better."

Kevin nodded silently, his eyes wide with fear.  Vincent
worked quickly, his hands sure and strong.  Katie stood
by, an arm around Kevin's waist in case he grew dizzy from
the pain.   The boy's face was as white as milk except 
for the shadows under his eyes. 

"Sorry," Vincent said.  "We're almost done here.  You 
know, I don't see many injuries like this from falls.  
Usually, somebody has given the arm a good yank.  Are
you sure that wasn't what happened, Kevin?"

"Maybe," Kevin said with a shrug followed by a grimace.  
"Maybe I yanked my arm when I fell."

Vincent bandaged the arm close to Kevin's midsection and
told him he should rest it.  Then he cleaned the scrape
on Kevin's face.  

"I want you to come back in three days so I can check
your arm, Kevin.  And I want you to come back right
away if it swells up.  All right?"

"Sure, doc," Kevin said as he slid off the examining
table.  "I'll come back, I promise."

"Please take care of yourself, Kevin," Katie said as 
she walked him to the door.  "Are you still living with
your father?"

"Yeah," Kevin said slowly, his eyes haunted.  "With my dad.  
I'll see ya aroun' Miss Katie."

"You know that boy?" Vincent asked after Kevin left.

"He used to live down the street," she told him.  "His
mother died in childbirth a couple of years ago.  The
baby died, too."  

Katie remembered Mrs. Kryder as a loving mother, struggling
to care for Kevin and his younger siblings.  Kevin's 
father had been a troubled man who drank too much even
before his wife died.  Relatives agreed to take the 
little ones, but Kevin remained behind with his father.
When they were evicted from their apartment, Katie had
lost track of them.

"I wonder if his father did that to him," Vincent said.

"He was a rough man, as I recall."

Kevin did not return to the clinic after three days.  Katie
thought of him often, remembering his sad, frightened eyes.
 
Katie had little time to wonder, though, as the clinic 
became even busier during the winter months.  A cacophony
of rattling coughs and wet sneezes rang from the crowded 
waiting room.  With her strong constitution, Katie managed 
to stay in good health, to her great relief.  

With their days filled with work, Katie and Mulder guarded 
their time with Mairead, spending as many nights at home
as they could manage.   Mulder's passion for photography 
returned, and Katie joked that the only lady more photographed 
than Mairead was the Statue of Liberty.  And Katie had to admit 
that Mairead was far more fascinating than the giant statue, 
who never put her torch in her mouth or flung it across the 
harbor.

Mulder's efforts to devote himself to his family were
sometimes thwarted, and intrusions from the world of
finances were not unusual.  He marveled once that Wall
Street had been able to function before the invention
of the telephone.  For her part, Katie often wished
that it never had been invented.  She would sigh with
resignation whenever a footman appeared, informing
them apologetically that Mr. Traut was on telephone,
or Sir Warwick, or Mr. Leamus.  

One evening their sitting room was invaded not by the
'phone, but by the trio of messieurs Frohike, Langly and
Byers.  

"I hope Mr. Pendrell knows he is also welcome here,"
Mulder said, and Katie could hear his sadness.  He was
willing to go to any length to have his sister return
to his life, but she and her husband remained shy of
contact.

"Our visit is unrelated to our partnership," Mr. Byers
explained.  "I believe you asked Mr. Frohike to
conduct a discreet investigation."

"You wanted him to get the scoop on Cornelius
Spender," Mr. Langly said.  "He asked for our help."

"I didn't ask, bonehead.  You horned in," Mr. Frohike
corrected him.

"Hey, how about something to eat?" Mr. Langly
requested.

"I'll fetch some refreshments," Katie said.  "Promise
not to start without me."

"Maid's night off?" Frohike asked.  

The staff was on duty, but it was simpler for Katie to
do it herself.  She found some cheese and biscuits in
the kitchen and brought them upstairs.

Mulder was trying to show Mr. Frohike his latest
photographs.

"She's beautiful, isn't she?  Look at that smile.  In
this one you can see her tooth.  And there it is
again.  Here she is with her foot in her mouth."

Mulder was less than halfway through his presentation,
but Mr. Frohike handed back the thick stack.

"OK, longshanks, she's a baby.  When are you going to
take some real pictures?"

Mulder was about to hand the photos to Mr. Byers, who
forestalled him gently.

"She's a very beautiful baby, Mr. Mulder.  I noticed
immediately."

"But they all look the same," Langly muttered under
his breath.

While the three men were uninterested in the baby, for
her part she found them highly entertaining.  She
stretched out her arms first to Langly, then to
Frohike, and was clearly disappointed when it was
Mulder who lifted her from the floor.

Frohike cut himself a large wedge of cheese.

"What's your interest in Mr. Spender?" he asked.

"He's been spending time with my mother," Mulder
answered.  "He strikes me as an opportunist."

The three visitors eyed one another and apparently
came to a decision.

"So you're not thinking about engaging his services,"
Frohike said.

"His services?  What kind of services does he offer?"
Katie asked.

"Nothing very nice," Langly said.

"Nothing you would even consider," said Byers.

"But you're right about one thing: he is an
opportunist," said Frohike.

"The consummate opportunist," said Langly.

Katie could sense Mulder's growing impatience, but
rather than urge their friends to get to the point,
she picked up the whiskey bottle.

"Have a drop," she said, pouring considerably more
into each glass.  "And do tell us all you've learned."

Byers savored a sip before he answered.

"He has friends in high places," he said somberly,
prompting his companions to roll their eyes  at the
inadequacy of his description.

"He has friends in *low* places," Frohike corrected
him.

"He has friends all over," added Langly.  "And he
kills people."

"No!"  Katie covered her mouth with her hand, truly
horrified by the revelation.

"Facts, boys.  I need facts," Mulder said calmly.

"He killed President McKinley," Frohike said.

Mulder shook his head.

"McKinley was shot by an anarchist, in front of
hundreds of witnesses," he said.

"Leon Czolgosz, a misfit without a penny to his name. 
Mistrusted even by other anarchists.  How did he
decide on his murderous plan?  How was he able to
accomplish it?" Frohike asked.

"I've never heard a hint of this," Mulder said.

"In November of 1901, Spender left the country, not to
return for many years," Byers said.

"Sounds like a thrilling yarn," Mulder said
impassively.  Even Katie felt her anxiety drop.  The
story was too outlandish to be real.

"Did your father ever say anything, or Traut?" Frohike
asked.  "They had to have known."

"They would have kept their mouths shut, once they had
him exiled," Langly said.

"Exiled?  They probably assisted in his escape," said
Byers.

"But Mulder's one of their own.  They would have
wanted to warn him," Frohike argued.

"They couldn't warn him without implicating
themselves," said Byers.

"My father was not a murderer," Mulder said angrily.

"Your father and the others may not have expected him
to resort to assassination.  Once the deed was done,
they were eager to distance themselves," Byers said.

"Can you prove any of this?" Mulder asked.

"Spender's not one to leave his calling card, and I
doubt your old man kept a diary," Langly said.

The debate about William was a secondary point, to
Katie, and one that could only hurt Mulder.

"Why has Spender returned?  What does he want?" she
asked.

"Ah.  That's the question," Frohike answered.

"We have evidence that he's a force behind the
temperance movement," Byers said.

Mulder made a wry face at Frohike, who had drained his
glass.

"Some might find that laudable," he said.

"But some might see it as an opportunity," said Katie.
 
"Good thinking," Mulder acknowledged.  "A ban on
alcohol would present a range of opportunities."

"First and foremost, Spender is a kingmaker. 
Remember, he put Roosevelt in the Executive Mansion," 
Frohike said.

"Then does he mean to put him there again?" Katie
asked.

"By shooting Taft?  He can't be that arrogant," Mulder
said.  

"I don't think that's his plan.  He's beyond murdering
the competition; he's ready to name his own man,"
Frohike said.

"How much did you have to drink before you got here?"
Mulder asked.

"A man with no background in politics," Byers said,
ignoring Mulder's question.  

"It's not possible.  He might put a pawn in Congress,
or in the Senate.  But not the White House," she said,
reflecting that even Tammany Hall sometimes failed in
their machinations.  But Mulder seemed somewhat
persuaded.

"An outsider.  Someone who wouldn't owe his office to
the machines," he said thoughtfully.

"You're a Harvard man, aren't you?  Well, keep your
eye on Princeton," Frohike said.

"But none of this accounts for his interest in your
mother," Langly said.

"There's the matter of her extreme wealth," said
Byers.

"Could be.  Or maybe it's personal.  Even a
bastard like that must have some feelings," said 
Frohike.

Katie felt her breath catch in her throat, and saw the
color drain from Mulder's face.  That last suggestion
was somehow more ominous than all that had gone before.

******************** 
"Katie, you have a patient who needs your 
attention," Shayna said at the doorway to 
the examination room where Katie was checking 
the supply inventory.

"A patient?" Katie asked.  The clinic had just 
closed for the lunch hour and Shayna was 
notoriously strict with patients on that 
account.  "I thought we were on lunch hour."

"He's a poor schlemiel who needs help, Katie.
I couldn't say no."

She stepped aside, and the "poor schlemiel" entered,
working manfully to fulfill Shayna's description.

"Please, Nurse Katie.  I need help," he pleaded.

Katie laughed at Mulder's hangdog expression.

"All right.  I'll make an exception this 
one time.  Open wide."

Mulder complied, taking a seat on the exam table 
and opening his mouth for her.  

Katie continued the charade, using a flat wooden 
stick to compress the back of his tongue.

"However were you able to get away?" she asked.

Mulder answered something like "ayuk ayuk."

"Well then.  Ayuk Ayuk must be a very good thing.  
Now I'll check your ears."

"A very good thing," Mulder said, holding stock-still
as she brought the otoscope to his ear.  "He's shaping
up so well that I'm thinking of taking you to Italy
next month."

"I can't leave the clinic until we have more staff,"
she said.

"Gondolas, Katie.  Remember?"

Indeed she did remember the honeymoon they'd dreamed
about when it seemed like an impossible dream.  But
the winter months would bring pneumonia and whooping
cough and the clinic was still too new to function 
without her.

"Another time.  Maybe in the spring," she said. 
Acting out of habit, she brought the otoscope to
Mulder's other ear.

"I'll book some staterooms on the Olympic for the
crossing, but my crew can bring over the Gallant. 
Visiting the continent will be more convenient on our
own yacht."

Mulder's words shook her, an unneeded reminder of the
gulf between her old world and the world she had
married.  

"I think I see what the problem is," she said,
peering through the otoscope into Mulder's ear.
"Your ears have a strange syndrome whereby they
hear what they want to hear."

"Very well.  In the spring," he said.  Disappointment
showed in his face and then lifted.  "And what do you 
prescribe for my sad affliction?" he asked, solemnly.

"It's a difficult case, but..."   Arms around his 
neck, Katie pulled Mulder down for a kiss.  "This
treatment must be repeated often to be effective."

"As often as possible," he said, his arms tight
around her.  "So Nurse Katie, where is my rival for
your attentions?"

"Rival?" she asked.  "Which one?"

"Very funny.  The young one who hangs on your every 
breath.  The one that belongs to that scarf over there,"
he said, pointing to the striped fabric hanging on a
peg by the door.

"Ah, Kevin," she said.  "He left that behind the last 
time he was here.  I hope the poor child isn't too cold 
without it.  I haven't seen him all day."   

And that was unusual.  After his initial resistance, Kevin 
Kryder had become a frequent patient, displaying bruises 
and scratches, though most of his complaints were vague.  
His stomach hurt, his throat was sore, he ached all over.  
The boy hung around so often, Katie had finally put him 
to work, unpacking supplies and minding young children 
while Vincent examined their parents.

"I don't think he likes me very much," Mulder said.

On one of his visits to the clinic, Mulder had chatted 
with the boy, asking him if he played stick ball, liked 
to go to the moving pictures, had ever ridden in an 
automobile--topics that were sure-fire hits with young boys.  
Kevin had offered no more than one word answers and 
flinched when Mulder patted his shoulder.  

"He's rather protective of me, Mulder.  I think he's a
bit jealous when you come to the clinic."

"Probably.  Since I to have a clear field, have 
you had lunch yet?"

"Not yet.  Vincent is out on a housecall, so 
I was just going to fix myself a sandwich."

"Well, then, this is your lucky day.  I just 
happen to have a tasty picnic lunch with me."

"My goodness, Mulder," Katie laughed as he retrieved
a large basket from beyond the door.  "How on
earth did you manage to get away from the office
and do all of this?"

She led him to her small office and they spread
the checkered tablecloth he'd brought over her desk.
Inside the basket was cold chicken, a bowl of 
potato salad, Cook's homemade bread and butter 
pickles and a flask of cold tea.

"My new protege is a godsend," he said.  "With 
Krycek's help, I think that trip to Italy could 
really happen."

Images of canals and cathedrals drifted through
Katie's mind.  "That would be lovely," she said.  
"But who is Krycek?"

"I told you.  Alex Krycek.  My assistant."

"You never mentioned his last name before."

"Does it matter?" Mulder asked.

As they began their lunch, Katie wondered how to
answer his question.  She remembered a conversation 
at her mother's boarding house.  She remembered the
rambling warnings by Mr. Fenig.

"One of my mother's boarders talked about a man who 
always seemed to be at the center of any agitation.  
The man's name was Alex Krycek," she told him at last.

"Which one said that, the professor?" Mulder asked.

"No, not Mr. Burke.  It was Max Fenig."

"Fenig?  Oh, the crazy one," Mulder said.

"He reads a great deal," Katie defended him.  "You
know, Mulder, people said Thomas Edison was crazy
too."

"Well then, if you think there are real grounds, I'll
look into it," Mulder said.

"As long as you don't leave this to your assistant,"
Katie said, leaning forward to offer Mulder a bite
of pickle.  

"There are certain tasks one must do for himself,"
Mulder replied, pulling Katie close and kissing her
soundly.  Her heart was racing by the time he 
released her.  

The next day, Mulder accompanied Katie and Mairead
on their weekly visit to the Scully house.  Katie 
knew her mother was not comfortable visiting them
at the Mulder house.  So every Thursday, Katie 
brought Mairead to the boarding house, where they
spent the afternoon and had supper.  Katie hoped
this would give her daughter an understanding of
how life was for all but the fortunate rich.

"Ack, what a beauty," Maggie said, taking Mairead
out of Katie's arms and removing the baby's little 
blue tam-o'-shanter.  "Such flashing eyes.  Such
rosy cheeks."

While supper cooked, the adults sat around the kitchen 
table over mugs of coffee.  Surrounded by the toys
Maggie Scully kept available for visiting grandchildren,  
Mairead banged a wooden spoon against a small pan.  

"Buh buh buh," Mairead babbled.  Her vocalizations were
enthusiastic nonsense, though Mulder insisted she'd
said Da-da the other day.  Katie and Miss Muir
could not corroborate that, however.

"Mother Scully, Katie mentioned one of your boarders 
might have some useful information," Mulder said over 
the din of Mairead's activity. "Is Mr. Fenig at home?"

"That one," Maggie replied.  "Who knows?  He's out
o' work, that much I can tell you.  Sneaks up to his 
room like a thief in the night. Three weeks past due 
with his rent, he is, and I'm this far from throwing
his skinny arse out on the street."

"Would you mind if we went up and checked?" Mulder
asked.  

"Suit yerself.  Ah, macushla, let Gran look at you,"
Maggie said, lifting Mairead onto her lap.  She turned
to Mulder. "Fenig's room is upstairs, second door on 
the left."

Katie led the way to Mr. Fenig's door.   There was no
answer to her knock, though she heard the rustling of
paper.  "Mr. Fenig!  Mr. Fenig, it's Katie.  May I come
in?"

It was several minutes before the door was unbolted and
opened.  The interior of the room was dark, the shades
pulled down tight against the last rays of afternoon sun.  
The only source of light was a small lamp next to the 
tumbled bed.  

Newspapers were stacked on the dresser, chair, bed and 
table.  Rolls of it covered the floor like drifts of
snow.  Max Fenig stood just behind the door, only his
bright blue eyes visible in the dark.

"How are you, Mr. Fenig?" Katie asked.  

"Not so very well, Miss Scully," he answered, stiffening
as Mulder entered the room after his wife.  

"You remember my husband," Katie said.  "His name is
Fox Mulder."

"I know who he is.  Everyone knows who he is."

"May we sit down?" Katie asked.  Fenig nodded slowly.
Katie and Mulder sat on the rumpled bed while Fenig
pushed a pile of newspapers off the lone chair and
sat.

"Katie told me how very knowledgeable you are
about current events," Fox said.  "Reading so many 
newspapers, you must have picked up a lot of 
information."

"Yes," Fenig said warily.  "I read more newspapers
than anyone else at the service."

Max Fenig made his living scanning the nation's 
newspapers for articles of interest for the
news service's clients.  The work was seasonal, 
though, and Fenig was laid off periodically.

"Mr. Fenig, I think you may know something about an
employee of my husband.  An Alex Krycek."

"Krycek.  Yes, yes.  The man who is everywhere and
nowhere."  Fenig's eyes flitted around the room.

What do you know about him?" Mulder asked.

Arms wrapped tight around his midsection, Fenig began
to rock back and forth.   

"I wondered, I wondered, I always wondered. . . And
it's you."

The little man stopped rocking for a moment and shot
a wide-eyed look at Mulder.

"You sent him to Pittsburgh."

Katie glanced at Mulder, whose nod was almost imperceptible.

"Roosevelt's your man.  Roosevelt and the square
deal."

Mulder opened his mouth, but closed it again when
Katie laid a gentle hand on his arm.  He sat back,
and closed his mouth.  

"Then Charleston."

"Charleston?"  Mulder echoed in surprise.

"Vote for La Follette!  Fighting Bob, the people's
friend!"
 
A chill snaked up Katie's spine.  She chanced another
glance in Mulder's direction. 

"Chicago," Fenig recited.

"More railroad business," Mulder told Katie under his
breath.

"Eugene Debs."

"Alex Krycek rallied for La Follette in Charleston,
and Roosevelt in Pittsburgh.  And spoke for Debs in
Chicago?" she asked.

"No, no, no.  Debs spoke.  Krycek, he didn't speak. 
But a generous donation.  From your husband, I guess."

"He spent two weeks in Chicago, for two days' worth of
work," Mulder said quietly.  "I should have pressed
for the details."

"Terre Haute, and then Wisconsin," Fenig said.

Mulder shook his head gravely.

"I've given him free rein when I should have been
watching him."
  
"Where are you sending him next?" Fenig asked.  

"You've been very helpful, Mr. Fenig," Katie said.

"I just read what's in the papers."

"Thank you," Mulder said.  "Your assistance has been
invaluable, Mr. Fenig.  I'd like to do something for 
you.  Let me cover your rent for a few weeks."

"Wh....why?  Why would you do that?"  Fenig seemed 
panic-stricken.  "What do you want from me?"
 
"Max," Katie said, softly.  "My husband is a very
good man.  He just wants to help you get back on
your feet.  I promise he won't harm you."

That seemed to mollify Fenig who gulped and nodded.
After pulling the door closed behind them, Mulder
whispered into her ear.

"Krycek's been campaigning to have me send him to
Germany.  I think I'd better do a little checking
before I agree to that."

Before they left, Mulder pressed enough money into
Margaret Scully's hand to keep Fenig in clean sheets
and chicken dinners for half a year.

Mulder spent more time at the office after that,
much to Katie's dismay.  She'd grown to enjoy his
impromptu visits.   Fortunately, the clinic was 
busy, so she was almost too busy to miss him.

Katie's hard work and long hours were a source of
puzzlement to her new friends.  Camilla Schroeder
expressed admiration, but seemed confused when 
Katie declined invitations to luncheons and matinees.

"It's by George Bernard Shaw!  He believes in
everything you do," Cami implored her by 'phone one
evening.

"I'm sure he's wonderful, but I'm needed at the
clinic," Katie explained.

"Sometimes you sound just like a man," Cami said.

With Mulder back to late nights at the office and
Teena's return to social engagements, Katie found
herself putting in longer hours as well.  It was past
seven and already dark as she locked the door one
night.  An angry voice greeted her from the shadows.

"You've been spreading lies about me."

She whirled to face her accuser.

"Mr. Chaco!  Your startled me."

"Tainted meat.  That's what you said."

Walter Chaco owned a butcher shop on Orchard Street,
but Katie couldn't recall criticizing his products.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said.

"Mrs. Budahas and her kids, with their bellyaches.  
Food poisoning, you told her.  Ptomaine."

Katie remembered the housecall.  Mrs. Budahas
splurged for a chicken dinner, and the next day the
whole family was in a misery of vomiting and diarrhea.

"I didn't even know where she bought the chicken!  But
Mr. Chaco, I do hope you know how important it is to
keep meat and poultry properly cooled.  Hygiene and
handwashing--"

"You got some gall, sister.  That woman is all over
the place telling people how I poisoned her, and
you're telling me to wash my hands!"

Belatedly, Katie wished she had called Dunham to bring 
the car.  The butcher was no threat to her, but she 
would have liked an easy way to end the confrontation.  

She was no more surprised than Mr. Chaco when a
stranger intervened.

"Is there a problem here, Mrs. Mulder?"

Her rescuer was a colored man in business attire. 
Katie hadn't heard him approach, nor had she seen him
watching.  It was as if he simply appeared.

"Who the hell are you?" Chaco demanded.

"Is there a problem?" the man asked again.

Chaco gave a snort of disgust and shook his head
before he walked away.

"Are you my bodyguard?" Katie asked the colored man. 
It was obvious he'd been watching for her, and she
could well imagine that Mulder would have secretly
hired someone to protect her.

"I am merely a good Samaritan," the man said.

"If you say so."   
 
"A simple thank you will suffice."

"You know my name.  And I don't know yours," she said
pointedly.

The man's expression turned from bemusement to
something harder, and he seemed to take her measure.

"Xavier," he answered at last.  "My name is Xavier."

"Then thank you, Mr. Xavier.  Although I didn't
require your assistance."  She turned her back on him
and walked away quickly.  

As she made her way home, Katie reflected on the 
changes that had taken place since that conversation 
with Max Fenig.  He barely had time to talk with her
these days.  He'd apparently hired a bodyguard without
so much as a word to her.  

By the time Mulder got home from the office these days, 
he was usually tired and grumpy.  She knew he missed 
his time with Mairead, as the baby was usually asleep 
when he arrived home.  And Mulder had been out of town 
more than he liked, since he didn't trust Krycek on 
his own.

"I wish you didn't have to work so hard," Katie told
him one night as they lay in bed.

"Barely a fortnight ago I suggested a trip to Italy,
but you were too busy with your clinic."

Her sympathy turned to resentment.

"Then you've found a fine way to repay me," she said.

"What does that mean?" he asked.

"You're never home, and even when you are, your mind
is still at work."

"I could say the same for you.  While you're counting
pills with Vincent Vitigliano, my daughter's alone
with that chain-smoking chimney."

"That's ridiculous and unfair!"

Mulder turned toward her and raised himself on one
elbow, then let himself flop back onto the bed.

"I know," he said, suddenly deflated.

"She's not alone.  She has Miss Muir and Skinner
watching her."

"You're her mother."

"And you're her father."

"I only meant that your word would carry more weight. 
You said it yourself--Skinner can't keep her from
Spender when Mother brings him in as her guest."

Katie sat up in the bed, almost too frustrated to
answer him.  As if her wishes carried more weight than
Teena's!  She deferred to her mother-in-law on a
thousand different things, in order to keep the peace
and save what little influence she had for the things
that mattered.

It all but broke her Ma's heart when the baby was
baptized at Trinity Church and not St. Brigid's.  But
why bring that up now?  Mulder would remind her that
she had agreed to it.

"If your own mother refuses to respect your wishes
about your only child, I hardly think she'll listen to
me," Katie said.

"My mother doesn't understand.  I thought you did,"
Mulder answered.

"And I thought you understood about the clinic.  Our
clinic, Mulder.  Yours as much as mine."

Mulder turned onto his side, away from her.

"I have an early meeting tomorrow.  I need to get some
sleep," he said.

Katie lay in the dark, reminding herself that her
husband could be thoughtful and reasonable as well as
self-important and pigheaded.  He held himself still
as a stone, but she knew he was wide awake.

"Mulder?"  She touched his shoulder.  "Ma used to say
you should never go to sleep on an angry thought."

He sighed.

"I miss you," he said.

"I miss you too, love."

He didn't move, so she turned instead, curving her
body against his back and bringing her arm across his
shoulder.  

She woke alone the next morning.  His pillow remained
dented from the weight of his head.  Her finger traced 
the depression and Katie sighed.  It tore her up
to see her husband so troubled.  

She knew he loved her and respected her, but Mulder was
becoming bowed by the pressures of business.  Katie
needed to reconnect with him, even if it meant precious
time away from the clinic.  

Katie got out of bed and went about her morning ritual,
bathing and dressing before going up to the nursery.
Every morning, Katie spent time with Mairead.  The
baby was waiting for her breakfast this morning, already
seated in her high-chair.   

"What's on the menu?" Katie asked as Miss Muir approached
with a covered tray.  

"Cook has prepared a nice soft-boiled egg and toast for
our Miss Mulder, this morning."

"Oh, her favorite," Katie said as she sat before 
Mairead.  The baby was, indeed, excited about the 
prospect of breakfast, crowing and trying to stand.
Katie guided her back onto the seat.  "Easy, love."

She spooned egg into Mairead's eager rosebud mouth.
With a piece of toast in each hand, the baby was in
heaven.   

"Muh," Mairead said. It was the one-year-old's all-purpose
word, meaning Mother, Father, Mairead and most importantly,
"more."

"Since the weather will be good, Mairead and I are going 
to the park," Miss Muir said.

"Won't that be fun?" Katie asked.  "Mairead is going to
the park!"

"Muh!" 

While Miss Muir washed Mairead's hands and face, Katie
went downstairs to eat breakfast.  The dining room was
empty, and Edgar informed her that Teena was taking
breakfast in her suite.  Katie had a momentary flash of
guilt at the relief this news brought.
 
After downing a bowl of oatmeal and some coffee, Katie
went to speak to Cook before Dunham drove her to the 
clinic.  She gave him instructions to come back for her 
at noon and to bring the basket that Cook would
have ready.  

Patients already filled the waiting room chairs as
Katie walked into the clinic.  Shayna moved about the
room with a clipboard, making notes as she spoke with
each person.  

"Good Morning, Katie," Shayna said.  "Old Mr. Arden's
cough is getting worse, Polly Turner has a fever and
rash on her chest and Mrs. Haskell says she hasn't
been able to keep anything down for two days."

"Is Vincent here?" she asked.  

"He's in the examination room."

"Let's see the Turner girl first," Katie said.

The morning seemed to last forever as Katie
and Vincent saw patient after patient.  Finally, it
was noon and Shayna shooed the patients into the 
hallway and locked the door.

"I was thinking about a nice hot plate of goulash
for lunch."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Vincent.  I have plans today."

Dunham was waiting for Katie at the curb.  She
climbed into the car.  The interior was filled 
with delicious scents from the picnic basket on 
the front passenger seat.

"Mulder & Traut," she ordered.

Dunham drove them through the streets, finally 
turning onto Broad Street.  After assisting Katie 
in disembarking the automobile, Dunham followed 
her into Mulder & Traut, carrying the picnic basket.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Mulder," Morris Fletcher 
greeted her.  "How might I help you?"

"You *might* let my husband know I'm here," Katie
said.  She had little patience for Fletcher's 
impertinence.

"Was he expecting you?" Fletcher asked.  Katie 
was tempted to tell him to go to blazes, but
she refused to give him the satisfaction.

"No," she answered.

"How unfortunate for Mr. Mulder to have missed
such a charming surprise," Fletcher said, a
smile flickering over his lips.  "What a shame
he isn't here.  He and Mrs. Fowley left an hour 
ago."

"Mrs. Fowley," Katie murmured.  

"Why yes.  She meets with Mr. Mulder from time to
time.  I'm afraid they might be gone for quite
a while."

*************************************


Forgive Us Our Trespasses - Mr. and Mrs. Fox Mulder's
story - Part 20

"Welcome back, sir."

Morris Fletcher looked up from his desk, wearing the
canary-devouring smile that always unnerved Mulder.  

"Any 'phone calls while I was out, Fletcher?"

"Mr. Leamus called.  He'll have the contracts
for the textile mill finished by Wednesday."

"Good," Mulder replied.  "No other calls?"

Something wasn't quite right.  Fletcher was far too
pleased this afternoon to be innocent.   He seemed 
to derive some smug pleasure from Mulder's afternoons 
with Diana. He could barely restrain his sniggering 
as he answered.

"No, sir.  No other telephone calls."

"Well, then, you must have been able to accomplish
a lot without interruptions."

"Thank god, you're back," DT said from the doorway
of the outer office.  "Something has come up."

Mulder followed Dewitt Traut into his office, with a
worried glance over his shoulder at the benignly
whistling Fletcher.

"I fear the great Atlantic Ocean has become no more
than a puddle," Traut said, sighing heavily.

"I haven't the time for your philosophizing, Uncle. 
Is there a matter that requires my attention?" Mulder
asked.  

"You've read, no doubt, of the unfortunate mine
accident in England?"

"Three hundred lives lost in the Pretoria Pit," Mulder
said.  The number was too large to truly comprehend. 
How many grieving wives and children, mothers and
fathers?  It left him numb.

"A perilous occupation, mining.  But a necessary one,"
said DT.

"My secretary, Mr. Skinner, comes from a mining
family," Mulder said.

"Perhaps he should accompany you," Traut said.  "To
England."

"I have some urgent responsibilities closer to home,"
Mulder said.

"This is closer to home than you realize.  We have an
interest in that mine, though not directly.  We have
mines here, and smelters, and railroads."

"Then we will endeavor to learn what we can from the
disaster.  We can't send men beneath the ground
without doing everything in our power to keep them
safe."

"My god, Fox, think what you're saying!"

"There are breathing apparatuses now, and other
equipment.  Skinner lost his father to a fire in the
mine."

"That accounts for his feelings then, but not for
yours. Open an orphanage or build them a library, but
don't forget that you're a businessman.  Mining is a
business, and it would be best if the inquiry
commission in England remembered that as well."

"Is that why you wanted me in England?  So I can
remind the weeping widows that mining is a business?"
Mulder asked.

"The bank needs someone on hand to observe and
mitigate the radical responses, without becoming
caught up in the hysteria.  You do understand?"

"Perfectly."  Mulder felt heavy and weary as he got to
his feet.  "I'll send an appropriate representative."

"Your man Krycek?  Do you think he's ready?"

"I think not, DT.  I fear Krycek may be a Socialist."

DT laughed.  "I wonder if you've ever seen a
Socialist.  That's not how they look."

"Then perhaps there's a different reason he passed
money to Eugene Debs."

"Sometimes I wonder if you give any thought to the
things you say," Traut said, frowning his disapproval.

Mulder met his eyes coldly.  Sometimes he wondered if
the older man gave any thought to the things he did.

"I won't send Krycek.  I'm making some inquiries into
his credentials.  I don't want him handling sensitive 
matters until I'm sure of his honesty."

Alex Krycek had come to Mulder & Traut with impeccable
letters of recommendation from several prominent firms.  
Perhaps they'd been too good to be true.  

"Perhaps it's best that I go to England," Traut said, 
after a moment of hesitation.  "Frankly, Fox, I don't 
know that you're sufficiently unbiased on the subject."

"Because I think miners' lives are not a reasonable 
sacrifice on the altar of almighty profit?"

Traut's telephone rang, and Mulder was spared from 
further discussion on the matter, though not from
DT's withering look of disapproval.  

After leaving DT, Mulder sequestered himself in his 
office, instructing Fletcher that he wasn't to be 
disturbed.   Alone at his desk, Mulder held his head
in his hands.   He wished, sometimes, that he could
go back to the days when he would grab his camera 
and disappear for hours.

Raising his head, Mulder reached for the telephone.
He instructed Fletcher to place a call to Morton
Bocks, an agent of inquiry he used from time to time 
for work matters.  

"Nothin' yet, sir, on what we talked about last week.
I'm trackin' down a coupla leads," Bocks said.

"I have another job for you, something more routine.  
The work history of one of my employees."

"Right up my alley, sir."

"And I'm sure it goes without saying that this requires
the utmost discretion."  

Mulder disengaged the call and spent the next few 
hours sorting through the tangle of railroad 
contracts from Dewitt's last attempt at railroad
investments.  

For the first time in what seemed like months, 
Mulder rose from his desk at five o'clock.  He
stuffed some papers in his briefcase and without
a word to DT, Krycek or Fletcher, left for home.

If Edgar was surprised to see him home so early,
he hid his shock well.   

"Is Mrs. Katherine at home?"  

"Not yet, sir.  I believe she is still at the
clinic."

Mulder frowned as he traveled down the wide 
central hall.  The stench of cigarette smoke 
permeated the air.  He'd grown to hate that
smell.  

Over the years, Mulder had learned to be wary
when he caught the scent of his father's cigar
smoke in the front hallway.  It invariably meant
that his father was defying Teena Mulder's decree
against smoking in the drawing room.  Now, Mulder
would give almost anything to smell his father's
Perfectos.  

William Mulder would not have allowed that 
reprehensible man in his home.  Mulder felt powerless
to stop him in light of Teena Mulder's 
friendship with him.

"Hello Mother.  Mr. Spender," he said as he 
entered the room.  Cornelius Spender lounged on 
the sofa, cigarette dangling from his fingers.  
Teena Mulder's cheeks were flushed pink.

"Fox, darling.  You're home early."  

"Thought I'd spend some time with Mairead before
dinner," Mulder answered.   "Where is she?"

"Upstairs with her nurse, I should think," his 
mother answered.  "Little Margaret was a bit 
out of sorts, so I asked Miss Muir to put her
to bed."

"Too bad Katherine is still at the clinic," 
Spender observed.  "Family time is so hard to
come by."

"Katie's nursing skills are needed there," Fox
said, stiffening.

"But, of course," Spender agreed.  "Still, it's
a pity when the benefits to the clinic are at the
price of her own safety."

"What are you talking about?"

"Fox, dear," Teena Mulder said as she rose from
her seat and placed a hand on his arm.  "Dear Cornelius
was just telling me that one of his employees happened 
by the clinic one evening a few weeks ago, just as a 
man was harassing Katherine.  I shudder to think what
might have happened if he hadn't been able to intervene."

"How surprising that Katherine neglected to tell you about
it.  But then, I suppose there are always a few
secrets between husbands and wives," Spender said.

Mulder took his leave brusquely, more troubled than he
cared to reveal.  

His cares lifted as he approached the nursery.
Mairead was engaged in placing her copper bowl first
on her own head, and then on Miss Muir's, as the two
sat on the floor facing each other.

"Is that your hat?  Oh, it's my hat," Miss Muir was
saying.

"No, that's my hat," Mulder said.  Mairead crowed with
delight and clamored to her feet.  Mulder waited as
she toddled toward him, although he cringed when she
lost her balance and landed on her well-padded bottom.
Unconcerned, Mairead stood again and completed her
journey.

"Da-da-da-da!" she sang when she reached him.  Mulder
swung her up into his arms.

Miss Muir began to tidy the room.

"My mother said she was out of sorts," Mulder
commented.  The child could hardly have been more
cheerful.

"She had some definite ideas about her wardrobe, sir,"
Miss Muir told him.

"My mother?" 

"Both of them, sir.  Mr. Spender brought the baby a
new dress, and Mrs. Mulder had me put it on her. 
Mairead seemed not to care for it."

Mulder hugged the baby tighter.

"She fussed and cried, and Mrs. Mulder told me to
bring her upstairs and put her to bed," Miss Muir
continued.   "Too much lace and starch.  Some babies
don't like that."

"Miss Muir, I want you to know how much we appreciate
you," Mulder said,  Mairead sense his serious tone and
complained.

"Ah!  Da-da-da-da!"  She pulled his tie, and when he
removed it from her hand, she pulled his hair.

"Thank you, sir.  I'm glad to know that," Miss Muir
said.  "If you don't mind, sir, I'll go down to the
kitchen for a bit."

"That will be fine," he said, glad to have some time
alone with his child.  Mulder lowered himself to the 
floor and sat crosslegged as Mairead brought him 
various bowls and pots.  Together they cooked up an 
imaginary meal.  

"Mmmm, delicious," he said as Mairead offered him a 
taste.   Mulder rubbed his belly and made appreciative
sounds, causing the baby to giggle so hard she lost her
balance and dropped down onto her bottom.

As they played, Mulder's gaze strayed to the grandfather
clock in the corner and over to the door and then back to
the clock as the minutes ticked off.   After an hour, 
Mairead became fussy, toddling over to her father as 
she rubbed her eyes. 

Gathering the child into his arms, Mulder cuddled her 
and inhaled the sweet scent of her skin.  "Poor mite, 
you won't be seeing Mama tonight, will you.  Come on, 
let's go find Miss Muir and get you to bed."

He carried the baby into the corridor where he found
Miss Muir returning from her supper.   Kissing Mairead 
goodnight, he handed her to the nurse. 

Mulder went downstairs to the sitting room and poured
himself a drink.  The room was dark, lit only by the 
flames from the fireplace and the light of one lamp.
He was on his second scotch when he heard footsteps 
and the swish of petticoats.

"Mulder!" Katie exclaimed when she realized he was in
the darkened room.  "I didn't expect you to be home."

She switched on some lights and entered the room, her
movements precise and measured.
  
"And yet, here I am.  And have been for some time.  
Mairead is asleep.  She missed you, you know.  Where
the hell have you been?"

"We had an emergency down at the clinic, for your
information.  Mrs. Villareal went into labor right
in the middle of the waiting room.  Are you satisfied
that my reasons for being late *one* evening this
week are valid?  After all, you've missed dinner
every night for the past three weeks."

"You know very well why I've had to stay at the office
so much, Katie.  There's far too much at stake there.
And I'm not in danger on Broad Street.  You can't say
the same, can you?  Except that you were never going
to say anything at all."

He jumped up from his chair, pacing the room.  The ice
in his scotch clinked against the side of the glass.  
Tilting his head back, he downed the rest of his drink 
in one quick swallow.

"Mulder, what on earth are you talking about?  I'm
not in any danger."

"Spender told me all about the little episode at
the clinic.  He said if it wasn't for his manservant,
some man might have assaulted you."  

"That man works for Spender?  I had no idea who he 
was--he just materialized out of the dark."

"And you chose to say nothing?"

"Nothing happened!  I was never in any danger.  Why 
would you listen to Mr. Spender, anyway.  He's a 
horrible, disreputable man and you know it."

"I fail to see why Spender would lie about something
like this.  What I don't understand is why you never
told me.  I have a right to know what happens to my
wife."

Katie laughed, shaking her head bitterly.  "You have
a right?  And do I have similar rights, or is that 
strictly a masculine privilege?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I know all about Diana Fowley, Mulder."  Katie's
blue eyes flashed with anger.

"I...what do you mean, you know about Diana?" 

"How long has this been going on, Mulder?  Did it 
start at Mrs. Schuyler's birthday party or has it
been longer?  Morris Fletcher told me all about your
meetings at your office."

Mulder slammed his glass down on the table and turned
to Katie, his hands balled into fists at his sides.

"Fletcher would like nothing better than to stir up
trouble for me.  He's angry that I haven't promoted
him and a vindictive little bastard."  

"So Morris Fletcher is lying and you didn't leave
the office today with Mrs. Fowley?"

"Any meetings I may have had with Diana Fowley were
strictly business."

"Business?  What kind of business?"

"I...I can't talk about it, unfortunately.  It's
a confidential matter," Mulder said, trying to keep
his voice calm and even.

"I may not have had the same advantages as you, Mulder,
but I'm not a fool."

Head held high, Katie left the room.  Mulder sat down,
his legs suddenly too unstable to support his weight.
He dropped his head into his hands.  

That night, Katie slept on the daybed in the nursery.

The next days were a study in polite distance.  Katie
may not have been brought up in the climate of social
masquerade common among the wealthy, but she managed
remarkably well.  

Mulder did whatever he had to in order to be home for
dinner each night.  Katie was usually already up in the
nursery when he arrived and together, they played with
Mairead until Miss Muir took her off to bed and the 
adults changed clothes for dinner.

In the evenings, Katie would read in the sitting room while
Mulder retreated to the library to review the paperwork he'd
carried home in order to leave work at a reasonable time.  
Each evening, Mulder would return to their suite only to 
find it deserted.  

One evening, as he drank scotch and looked over contracts,
Edgar knocked on the door to report that Mulder had a
telephone call.

"I got a couple of questions for you, Mr. Mulder. 
See, I got a name and a place of business, but there's
something here that just doesn't fit."

"Tell me what you've learned," Mulder said.

"Hold your horses--"

"Mr. Bocks, I'm paying for this investigation."

"Yes sir, and I hope I don't sound disrespectful--"

"I won't ask you again," Mulder said.  Sometimes it
seemed that everyone in his life took pleasure in
defying him.

"OK!"  

Bock gave up his information in a breathless rush, and
Mulder ended the call, his patience exhausted.  He 
called Edgar and said he was leaving for a while.  
 
He collected the Pierce Arrow, using the new electric
starter that Ringo Langly had installed.  It was
always a happy surprise when the thing worked, but the
Little Dynamo partners insisted that a foolproof
device was only a few months away.

Unfortunately the starter didn't perform such tasks as
opening and closing the carriage house doors.  Perhaps
the boys could work on that next.  Mulder locked the
bolt himself before he drove away.

The location Bocks had named was notorious, and the
detective had offered to accompany him.  Mulder's
precipitous refusal might have been a mistake;  the
little man was annoying, but he carried a sidearm.  
Mulder felt a measure of anxiety as he parked the motorcar.  
The hour was late, but the street was alive.

"Hey, mac," he called to a beefy man in a reefer coat.
"Two bucks to watch my car."

The man stepped out of the shadows.

"I'll keep me eye on it," he said, and nodded his
understanding when Mulder handed him half the payment.
 
It was hard to find the address in the dark.  Voices
called to him from windows and doorways, and several
girls approached him directly.

"Maybe you ain't lookin' for a girl," one man
suggested.

To all of them, Mulder shook his head.  He located 
the doorway he was looking for, but the room that he
entered was as sad and squalid as the street. 
Empty-eyed girls and women stood leaning against the
walls or sat on the floor on bare, stained mattresses.

"See anything ya like?" a red-faced, fat man
greeted him.

"I'm looking for Sweet Betsy," he said.

"Huh.  That dumb Litvak run off a week ago."

"Litvak?" he asked.

"Yeah, greenhorn bitch right off the boat.  Din't know
enough English to ride the trolley."

Mo Bocks' "Sweet Betsy" fit the age and the physical
description, but the girl Mulder was looking for would
have spoken English.  

"Is anyone else called Sweet Betsy?" Mulder asked.

"I'm Sweet Betsy," crooned a girl wearing something
constructed out of red feathers.

"Oh, they're all Sweet Betsy," the fat man assured him.  
"Every one of 'em a beauty."  
 
Mulder withdrew from the premises with a weary sigh. 
He walked back to his car, keeping to a steady pace that 
would convey purpose but not fear.  The flesh trade was 
the primary occupation of the street, but mugging ran a 
close second.

"Hello, kind sir.  May I offer you my company and any
pleasure you desire?"

Mulder grimaced at the question because the voice was
clearly that of a child.  Pity made him reach into his
pocket, but then he got a better look.

His accoster was not a girl, as he had originally
thought, but a boy, in velvet britches and a flowing
shirt.  His cheeks were red with cold or rouge.  With
a shock, Mulder realized that he knew him.

"Kevin!"

It was the young boy who made such a fixture of
himself at Katie's clinic.

"Mr. Mulder, I didn't see it was you.  I'm sorry!"

"It's cold, Kevin.  I'll drive you home," Mulder said.

"I'll walk, sir, but thank you all the same," Kevin
said, his voice trembling.

"It's freezing, son.  Come with me."  Mulder reached
for his shoulder, and Kevin leaped away.

"I have to go home!" Kevin broke into a run, but he
didn't get far.  A tall man in a heavy coat stepped
out of a doorway and shoved him against the building.
 
"Are you stupid, kid?"

"I'm sorry," Kevin whispered.

"Maybe you like gettin' a beatin', huh?"  The man
raised his fist. 

"Don't touch him," Mulder warned.

The man turned to Mulder.  His demeanor changed 
completely as he fixed a smile on his craggy
face.

"He's a nice boy, ain't he?  You won't do no better."

"Come with me, Kevin."  Mulder tried to convey
reassurance and protection, but when Kevin came to him
it was with shame and resignation.

"You want him for the whole night?" the man asked.

Mulder gritted his teeth.

"Yes," he answered.

Kevin was crying quietly when he got into the car.  

"Kevin--"

"It's all right, Mr. Mulder.  Just don't tell Miss
Katie, and I won't tell her neither."

***********************************************
 
Katie tiptoed down the back stairs to brew herself a
cup of tea.  She didn't want to disturb the servants,
who seemed to take it as a reproach if she did
anything for herself.   

Mulder was working in the library.  She could have
tapped on the door to ask if he wanted a cup.  It
should have been a simple thing to do, but things had
never been simple for them.

She sat in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to
boil.

Mulder had business with Diana Fowley, business he
wouldn't discuss.  Katie could have pointed out that
Mulder & Traut had half a dozen vice presidents, not
to mention another partner, who might have taken on
the burden.  For that matter, Fowley Steamships could
hardly be a one-woman operation.  But no, this
business had to be carried on by Mulder and Diana
alone.  Alone together.

Katie knew what Missy or Shayna would think, if she
had confided to either one that her husband was seeing
his old fiancee on the sly.

But they would be wrong.  Mulder was domineering,
moody and sometimes quite blind, but he wasn't
unfaithful.  Something was going on between him and
that horrible Mrs. Fowley, but it wasn't that.

The kettle bubbled on the stove, and Katie filled the
teapot.  Maybe she would surprise Mulder with a cup of
tea.

She could bring him a cup of tea and tell him in all
sincerity that she did trust  him.  It distressed her
that he conducted secret meetings with Diana,
especially given her history of manipulation and
deceit, but Katie knew down to her bones that Mulder
loved her, and she loved him as well.

Mulder would be as glad as she was to end their
stalemate.  The tension would melt from his jaw, 
and he would take her in his arms.  

But she wouldn't let him, not right away.  First they
had to come to an agreement about the clinic.  Mulder
knew what it meant to her, and he knew she was needed
there.  He would have to stop berating her about the
hours and the so-called danger.  

She poured a cup for herself and sat down at the table
to drink it.  

Why was Mulder so stubborn, believing Spender's
version of the argument with Chaco?  To hear "dear
Cornelius" tell it, Walter Chaco would have positively 
killed her if Mr. Xavier hadn't intervened.

Nobody asked "dear Cornelius" why his manservant just
happened to be there, waiting by the clinic door. 
Katie couldn't ask him either, not without driving
Mulder into a panic.

There was a creak from the doorway, and she looked up
to see Walter Skinner push past the swinging door.

"Katie."  He sounded surprised as he greeted her.

"I was just having a cup of tea.  Would you like
some?"

He took a cup for himself and sat down at the table.

She knew he must be wondering why she was alone in the
kitchen, with Mulder upstairs, but she was grateful
that he didn't ask.  She returned the favor by not
mentioning the deepening friendship between him and
Miss Muir.  

"How is your book coming along?" she asked instead.

He shrugged.  

"I've put it aside for the time being."

Katie smiled.  Sparking and courting took far more
time than Walter Skinner had probably realized.  It
was no wonder he hadn't gotten much writing done 
with the lovely Eustacia Muir around.  

Both of them turned at the sound of the back door
opening.

"Come on, let's get you something to eat..."

Katie froze, the teacup half way to her mouth.  She'd
been wrong--her husband had not spent the evening 
sequestered in the library after all.

Mulder entered the kitchen, a small figure emerging 
from behind him.  Katie gasped at the sight of Kevin
Kryder, dressed in outlandish clothing, tear tracks
staining his cheeks.   The teacup clattered against
the saucer as she set it down a bit too quickly.

"Mulder, what's going on?" she asked, rising from 
her seat at the table.  

"I...ah...ran into Kevin," he answered, his gaze
flicking from her to Skinner across the kitchen 
table.  "It wasn't safe for him to stay where he
was, so I brought him home."

Katie nodded, rising from the table and crossing
to them.  "You poor child.  Are you hungry?"

Eyes cast downward, Kevin shrugged and turned his
face away.  "I gotta wash my face," he murmured.

"I'll show you where you can wash up," Skinner
said, rising from the table.  Kevin eyed the 
stranger in the room warily, but Skinner's 
calm, steady kindness seemed to reassure the 
boy as he nodded and followed the big man out
of the room.

Katie took Cook's apron from its hook by the
door and covered her dress, wrapping it nearly
twice around her slim waist.  She took eggs, milk
and butter out of the ice box and set them on the
table.  She cracked three eggs into a shiny copper
bowl, a recent replacement for one that now 
resided in the nursery.

"I didn't even know you'd gone out," Katie said,
her back to Mulder.  "Where did you find him?"

Mulder hesitated, to Katie's exasperation.

"Then don't tell me," she said, turning to face
him.

"The Bowery.  I was down on the Bowery."

"At night.  You didn't go to look at a property 
in the dark," she said sharply, because surely 
that would have been his explanation.

"I'm sorry, Kate, I can't tell you more."

There was an agony of frustration in his voice.

"Then don't.  Just don't lie to me," she said.  

He held her gaze, but any reply was left unspoken
as Skinner and Kevin returned to the kitchen.

The boy's face was now clean, the edges of his
hair damp.  His flowing shirt was covered 
by a navy blue sweater of Skinner's, the sleeves 
rolled up and the hem nearly at his knees.

Katie beat the eggs with a bit more force than
was necessary, then spooned some butter into a
frying pan.  As she cooked the eggs and cut some
bread, Katie watched Mulder take a seat next to
Kevin at the table.  She couldn't hear what Mulder
said, but Kevin shrugged and shook his head.

"Who is this boy?" Skinner asked, quietly, as he cut 
a large slice of bread and buttered it.   

"He spends a lot of time down at the clinic," she
replied, as she piled the eggs on a plate.  "I 
think he's been mistreated very badly."

Skinner didn't reply, but she watched as his 
expression softened.  He poured a large glass of
milk for the boy and brought it over to the table.

"Here you go, Kevin," Katie said as she set the
plate before him.  For a moment, the boy looked as
though he was going to cry as he reached for the
fork she'd laid by his the dish.

Kevin made short work of the eggs and bread.  He 
took a long drink of milk, wiping his mouth with 
the sleeve of Skinner's sweater, which caused the 
big man to wince.

"It's pretty late," Skinner said.  "Why don't we
find you some place to bed down?"

The boy stiffened, then relaxed, as he realized
he was in a safe place. 

"OK," Kevin said, finally, stifling a yawn.  

After Skinner ushered Kevin out of the kitchen, 
the only sound was the ticking of the large clock 
over the table.  

"Would you like some tea?" Katie asked, her voice
sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet room.  "I
think it's still hot."

Mulder nodded, and she got up and poured them both
cups of tea.  As she sipped hers, she watched Mulder
spoon sugar into his cup and stir.  

"You asked me not to lie," Mulder said, his eyes 
trained on his cup.  He seemed to have trouble
controlling his voice.  "I love you.  That is the 
truest truth I know, Kate.  I wouldn't do anything 
to hurt you.  You have to believe that."

"I believe that you love me," she replied.  Mulder 
released a breath and looked up with shining eyes.  
"And I believe that you wouldn't hurt me intentionally."

They drank their tea, each consumed with their own 
thoughts.  

"Let's go upstairs," Mulder said, reaching across the
table for her hand.  His fingers felt warm from 
holding his tea, and Katie nodded.  She missed
him; it was as simple as that.  She  missed his
loving touch, his teasing humor.  She missed the
way his body felt when he held her in his arms.
She was tired of fighting the need.

Leaving the dishes in the sink, they walked up to
their suite.  Mulder's arm was firmly around her
waist as they climbed the stairs.  

Once inside the suite, Mulder drew her into his
arms, raining hungry kisses on her face and down
her neck.  He cursed softly as he fought with the
dozens of buttons down the back of her dress. 
Eventually, persistence won out and they managed
to rid each other of their clothes and were pressed 
together, skin to skin.

She moved as if in a dream, aware only of the
sensation of Mulder's warm, firm flesh under 
her hands.  His mouth was everywhere, kissing and
nuzzling and driving her wild.  She could no more
resist him than she could stop breathing.  

She didn't want to resist, though.  She wanted to
feel him moving inside her, wanted to straddle his
body, and watch his face as he climaxed.  She wanted
to feel the slow bubbling of her own orgasm and 
collapse over him as she rode the waves of release.

She woke in Mulder's arms the next morning.  

"Good morning, sleepyhead," he said, smiling at her.

"Good morning."  She stroked a hand along the smooth
skin of Mulder's back, enjoying one last delicious
touch before disengaging from his embrace.  She 
pushed herself up to sit against the headboard.

"I missed you," he said, simply, as he sat beside
her.  "More than I could bear."

"I missed you, too."  She took his hand between hers,
holding it on her lap.  "Tell me more about Kevin."

"Katie, I had heard of girls being forced into such 
lives, but I had no idea that boys were victimized 
in the same way.  This horrible man tossed Kevin 
around like a rag doll and then "sold" him to me 
for five dollars."

"Dear God," Katie exclaimed. 

"He was in tears when he got into the car.  It took 
me two blocks to convince Kevin that I didn't have 
any intentions beyond getting him someplace safe.  
I can't imagine what his life has been like--we have 
to help him, Katie."

Another man might have been repulsed by the 
child.  Her husband wanted to help him.  "Do you 
know how much I love you?" she asked.

"Probably as much as I love you."  He could not
hide his pleasure at her words; his grin was 
unrestrained.

"Could you find him work at Mulder & Traut?
Maybe he could stay with my mother," Katie
suggested.  

"Of course I could give him a job, but maybe it would
be better to send him to the country."

"But Mulder, the city is all he's ever known."

"It's not a wholesome place for him. We have a farm in
Connecticut, and the family that runs it is very kind.
Lots of kids, fresh air, room to run and play . . ."

"We'll think about it," she said.  She imagined Mulder
delivering a bewildered Kevin to the startled family. 
It was a naive solution, no matter how well intended.

"They would take him in if I asked them," Mulder said.

Katie frowned.  More and more these days, Mulder took
it for granted that people would obey him.

"Poor Kevin. I always knew something was wrong," she
said. "Vincent had told me about boys and girls who
sold themselves to survive, but I never guessed that
Kevin was one of them."

"You knew about this?"

"Vincent had shown me some reports on the children."

Mulder was silent for several moments.  

"You need to distance yourself from the clinic," he 
said at last.  "It's far too dangerous for you to
be directly involved."

"We've already discussed this, Mulder."  She rose from  
the bed and reached for her dressing gown.  She slipped 
into it and belted it tightly around her waist.  "I'm 
needed there."

"You're needed here.  Find another nurse.  Find three
of them--money is no object."

"That's not the point, Mulder.  I don't just want
to throw money around and stay home.  I enjoy working
at the clinic.  Being useful is important to me.  I
need it."

"Do you need it more than your husband?  Your child?"

"How dare you ask me that.  You might as well ask me
to choose between air to breathe or water to drink.
Which do I need more?  Which is more important?  I 
won't be dictated to, Mulder."

She stalked into the bathroom, not giving him the 
opportunity to reply.  Katie felt anger burn 
inside her as she opened the taps and watched water
rush into the bathtub.       

How had things become so explosive between them? 
It felt as if they were circling a powder keg, each
of them striking matches and tossing them blindly
into the air.  It was a matter of time before one
of them said something final and unforgivable.

She had foolishly thought that if she tried to 
accept Mulder as he was, with his need for 
unconditional trust, he'd accept her need to work.  

As Katie sank into the hot water, she could no longer
hold back her tears.  If Mulder heard her, beyond 
the bathroom door, he kept to himself.  

Finally, she washed and climbed out of the tub.  
As she stood, water streaming from her body, she
remembered their honeymoon.  She'd become chilled
from their first swimming lesson and Mulder had 
tenderly washed her and poured warm water over her
hair.  Katie sighed as she remembered how he had 
made passionate love to her.  Could that love survive 
their differences?   

After she dressed, Katie returned to the bedroom.
As she stepped through the door, she found 
Mulder sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows 
on knees and head in hands.   

"Are you hungry?" she asked, sitting next to him
on the bed.  "I'll order some breakfast."

He nodded, though he didn't look at her.  "I
won't fight you."

"You don't have to eat if you don't want to,
Mulder."

"No, I mean about the clinic.  I won't fight
you if it's what you really want."

Mulder seemed resigned to her work over the next
few weeks.  He didn't criticize the time she 
spent at work, or voice his concerns about the 
dangers involved.  

For her part, Katie tried to be home early as
often as she could.  Maybe Mulder had a point
about hiring another nurse.  With more help, 
perhaps she could shorten her hours a bit.

Fifteen-month-old Mairead was a delight.  It was 
still light out when Katie came home from work most 
days, so she was would bundle Mairead up and take 
her to the park.  Often, Katie would turn to see 
Mulder striding across the grass to meet them and 
the family would enjoy the waning sunlight before 
going back to the house for dinner.

So, on an unseasonably mild Saturday in March,
Katie found herself glancing at the clock.  She 
looked over at Shayna's impatient face--apparently 
she wasn't the only one who wanted to go home.
 
"Michelangelo!  Enough already!"

"Is that your expert opinion, *Doctor* Berkowitz?"
Vincent asked, smiling without looking up at her.  He
was working to close a jagged cut on the forearm of a
squirming child, and the tiny stitches required
focused concentration.

"Some of us want to go home," Shayna answered.

Katie couldn't fault Shayna for her eagerness.  Shayna 
had locked the clinic doors an hour ago, reckoning 
that the waiting room was full enough to occupy 
them until closing time.

"You're such a brave boy," Katie told the little patient 
as she held his arm still.

"I'm tryin' my hardest," the child answered through
his tears.

"The Unicorn Tapestry didn't take this long," Shayna
complained.

"You can leave, Shayna.  I'll lock up," Katie said.

"Don't worry about me.  It's my poor husband who's
been home all day with the monsters."

The Berkowitz family managed to take care of two 
small children and a hefty teenager, largely 
because Shayna's husband worked nights.  

"I'm sure Izzy will be helping out," Vincent needled
her.  Izzy wasn't a bad boy, but he had never yet 
been described as "helpful."

"Izzy's working," Katie reminded him.  

"Seven bucks a week, thank you very much," Shayna 
said proudly.

"Seven dollars!" the patient marveled.

Katie felt her face color.  To the Mulders, seven
dollars wasn't enough money to bend over and pick up.
To these people, it meant the difference between 
hunger and food for a week.

Vincent finished suturing.

"I'll dress it," Katie said.  Vincent nodded and went
to wash his hands.

"Ach, another production!" Shayna complained.  

"A little bandage.  Don't make such a megillah out of
it," Katie laughed.

"I'm putting everything away.  You just finish what
you're doing and get out," Shayna warned her.

"Another customer," Vincent called.  "I'll let them
in."

Katie heard it too, someone banging on the locked
clinic door.

"Go away!  Nobody home!" Shayna shouted.

The voice from the hallway brought Katie a chill.  It
was Izzy Berkowitz, but despite his deep voice, he
sounded like a child.

"Mama!  Mama!  Mama!"

"Izzy," Shayna uttered in a whisper, pale as she ran
to the door.

Katie helped her patient down from the exam table and
back to the waiting room, where she gave the mother
some hurried instructions and sent the pair on their
way.  Izzy was sobbing in his mother's arms, and Katie
felt sick with apprehension.  His face was grimy with
soot and he reeked of smoke.

"Izzy, what happened?" Vincent asked.

"Fire.  The factory," Izzy sobbed.  

"Are you hurt?" Katie asked.  His hands were bleeding,
and he might have other injuries.

"I seen Sadie with fire on her, Mama.  I seen Ida and
Ben, and then I didn't see them no more."

"Rifka? Bessie?  Yetta?" Shayna asked.

"I don't know, Mama."

"Vincent, the Triangle company.  On Washington Place,"
Katie said urgently.

"Let's go,"  he answered grimly.

They could see and smell the black smoke as they
walked westward, joining a somber throng of others. 
As the crowd grew thicker and more anxious, Katie held
on to Vincent's arm.  

Pressed among so many bodies, she couldn't tell
exactly where they were.  She felt an elbow against
her back, and she almost tripped over a curbstone.

Vincent began to shake, and she squeezed his arm.

"What?" she asked.  

A patrolman was trying to direct people away from the
scene of the tragedy, to the Mercer Street police
station.

"That's where ya go if yer lookin' fer someone," he
explained.

"This man is a doctor," Katie told the cop.

"OK, we can use him here."

Now Vincent took her arm.

"Go home, Katie.  We can't help these people."

"The policeman said they need us."

"I know what he wants.  I can do it alone."

Stacks of broken bodies, and a string of wagons to
take them away.  

"Dead.  Dead.  Dead," Vincent pronounced, and at his
word the victims were removed.

"Where are you taking them?" Katie asked one of the
drivers.  The city morgue couldn't hold so many.

"The pier.  They got something set up there," he
answered.   

"Katie!  One's alive!"

It was a miracle, but a cruel one.  

The girl must have been among the last to jump, her
fall broken by the pile of bodies on the ground.  Her
face and body was blackened, and her breath rasped
from her lipless mouth.  

Katie turned to Vincent, to ask him what she should
do, although she knew that nothing could save this
girl.  But Vincent had moved away, continuing his
morbid task.

She leaned over the girl, fighting her revulsion at
the stink of burned flesh.

"Are you in pain?" she asked, expecting no answer and
getting none.

The breath sawed in and out through the soot-gray
teeth.

Katie didn't want to touch her.  

"Hail, Mary, full of grace. . . "  She stopped
herself.  The girl might be Jewish.  

"The lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. . . ." 
The words came to her.  Perhaps they gave some comfort
to the blackened body before her.  As she finished the
psalm, she saw Vincent return and signal to one of the
drivers.

"Dead," he said.

Two men lifted the girl onto a wagon and wheeled her
away.  Katie turned to survey the scene.  Smoke and 
ash still filled the air, along with the stench of
burned flesh and scorched fabric.  Stained red with
the blood of the victims, water from the firehoses 
ran through the gutter.

Men wept openly, mumbling in languages Katie didn't 
understand.

Through the turmoil of smoke and milling crowds, a
familiar tall form appeared.  His face was smeared 
with soot, his trousers were soaked to the knees.  
Mulder stumbled once as he made his way to her, his
eyes dazed and haunted.

"Mulder?"

"Thank God, I found you," he said.  "I've been 
searching everywhere."

"How did you know?" she asked, her throat hoarse
from smoke and emotion.

"I thought I'd pick you up from work today.  When
I got to the clinic, Shayna told me what happened."

"You're wet." she said, looking down at his legs.  
His suit was ruined; the pocket of the
jacket was torn and a streak of blood graced the
lapel.

"I was trying to help," he answered, with a shrug.  
"They never had a chance."

"Vincent has to..."

"Pronounce the dead," he completed.

She nodded.  "Then we're going to the hospital.
They need all the help they can get."

"I'll go back to the clinic.  Shayna has her hands
full."
 
Author's note:  To learn more about the Triangle Shirtwaist 
Factory fire, go to this website:  
http://www.ilr.cornell.edu/trianglefire/

*****************************************
 
Tonight the questions were simple.

Where is my sister?  Has anyone seen my daughter?  Is
my brother OK?

Tomorrow the questions would be more profound, but
somehow easier to answer.  How did this happen?  Who
is to blame?

The waiting room at the clinic was crowded, with men,
women and children sitting on chairs or standing
together in clusters.  Occasionally someone wailed or
broke into loud sobs that would quickly quiet and fade
back into the general rush of voices.

The languages were strange but required no
translation.

Shayna made her rounds as briskly as ever, clutching
her clipboard and writing down names.  Mulder saw that
she'd appointed deputies, who circulated with
clipboards of their own.

Shayna approached him, her face frozen with grief.  

"We gotta do somethin' about feedin' these people,"
she said.

Mulder tried to measure if it was Shayna or himself
who was not making sense.

"At a time like this?" he asked.

"It don't help the dead to starve the living.  Make
some coffee."

There was a percolator in the kitchen, and some cups.  
But there were dozens of people milling around the 
clinic, and probably more to come.  The problem 
coalesced in his mind and turned into one he could 
solve, with the help of a telephone.

"Edgar, I need coffee and sandwiches for. . . about
two hundred," he instructed the butler.  "At Mrs.
Katherine's clinic, as soon as you can arrange it."

"Very good, sir," Edgar answered.

Mulder walked through the exam rooms in the back,
where Shayna's squad of helpers had brought those who
were too distraught to tolerate the waiting room.  In
one room he found Izzy Berkowit, stretched out on the
floor, sketching on a yellow pad.

"Drawing?" Mulder asked.

Izzy didn't look up.

"I shouldn't be here," he said flatly.

"Come help up front."  Izzy was a big, strong kid. 
Mulder could find him a useful task.

"Go chase yerself."

"I can take you home," Mulder offered.

"I oughtta be dead."

There was no quick answer, but Mulder felt obliged to
respond.

"That's not for us to decide."

Izzy shrugged indifferently, his pencil moving rapidly
on the page.

"She's pretty," Mulder said, nodding at Izzy's
portrait.

"She's dead."

Mulder had no words of wisdom or even of comfort, and
he left Izzy to his sketching.  In the next room he
found two young girls, sitting side by side on the
exam table and clasping hands.

Again words came hard, and Mulder found himself
asking:

"Are you hungry?"

The smaller girl looked up.

"We got potatoes 'n cabbage 'n a big bone with even
some fat on it," she said, tears flowing down her
face.

The older girl spoke in a whisper.

"Her supper's all ready but she ain't comin' home."

"I'm so sorry," Mulder said.  "Your mother?"

"My big sister Rosie," the girl said.

"Ma died when we was kids.  Then Rosie took care of us.  
And now me and Ruthie, but Ruthie's too little."

"I'll take care of you, Goldie.  I always will."

Mulder pressed some dollars into her hand, disgusted
with himself as he did so.  He couldn't stay in the
room.

One of Shayna's clipboard ladies found him in the
hallway to call him to the telephone.  Grasping the
candlestick body, he held the receiver to his ear.

"Sir, I called to speak to Mrs. Mulder, but they say
she isn't there."

He recognized the voice of Mairead's nursemaid.

"Miss Muir, is something wrong?" he asked.  The
tentative voice on the phone gave him a jagged shock
of fear that ripped through his numbness.   

"Nothing's wrong that I could say, sir, but I think
you would want to come home."

"Is Mairead ill?  Did something happen?" he asked
sharply.

"Mairead is very well, sir," Miss Muir said.  "Your 
mother had me bring her to the drawing room to visit 
with Mr. Spender."
 
"I will be right there."   

He emptied his pockets and gave Shayna all he had,
promising to make good on any needed expenses.  He
drove uptown, wishing that Katie was beside him but
unwilling to take the time to find her.  Home at last,
he left the Pierce Arrow idling by the curb and ran up
the steps two at a time.

"Where is my daughter?" he asked Edgar.

"In the drawing room, sir, but I'm sure you'll want 
to dress for dinner."
 
Mulder realized that his trousers were wet and torn,
and his coat was filthy.  He peeled off the coat and
shoved it at the butler before he ran to the parlor.  

"Please see to my motorcar," he called over his
shoulder.

With soot on his own face and smoke in his nose and
throat, Mulder saw the cigarette before he smelled it.

"Fox!  What have you been doing?" Teena asked as he
burst into the room.  

His mother sat on the divan.  On the floor, long legs
crossed gracefully beneath him, sat Cornelius Spender,
and not an arm's length away sat Mairead.

"Again, again," she cackled.

"If the lady commands it, I must obey," Spender said. 
He shot a smug glance at Mulder, then launched into a
cheerful rendition of "I'm a Little Teapot."  Mairead
laughed and clapped her hands at his antics.

"Oh, Cornelius, you're like a child yourself," Teena
said.  "Can you believe this, Fox?"

"No, Mother, I can't," he answered, scooping his child
from the floor.

"Papa, no!" she complained.

"Come with me, Mairead.  We can play upstairs until
bedtime."

"No, no, no!  More gampa!"

"Games upstairs, my darling," Mulder said.  Mairead
stiffened and jerked, her face turning red.

"Honestly, Fox.  You and Katherine leave Margaret to
her own devices all hours of the day and night, and
then you fly into a rage because Cornelius shows her
some kindness."

"It's just fatherly pride, Teena, and perfectly
understandable.  Why not let Mairead enjoy another
rousing song while you wash up, Fox.  It can't be 
good for her to be near you like that."

Mairead's furious shrieks stung Mulder's ears as he
carried her upstairs.  At least it spared him from
hearing anything further from his mother or Spender.

In the nursery he found Skinner and Miss Muir, the
latter looking apprehensive.

"I hope you didn't find me impertinent, sir--oh, Mr.
Mulder!  What happened to you?"

He gave his angry offspring to the nursemaid.

"A terrible fire at one of the factories," he said.

"Anyone hurt?" Skinner asked.

"Miss Muir, if Mairead could have her bath now,"
Mulder said, quietly.

"No bath!" Mairead screamed as Miss Muir carried her
away.

"How many?" Skinner asked when they were alone.

Mulder turned away, his face twisted.  He didn't think
he was going to cry, but he might vomit.

"Fifty?  A hundred?  I don't know," he answered when
he regained control.

"Good lord," Skinner said.

"I went to look for Katie.  The bodies were in piles
and more piles, and the stink was like meat."

"I'll get you a drink," Skinner said.

"I don't want a damn drink!  Do you think those poor
girls got a drink?"

Skinner absorbed the outburst.

"Go on," he said.

"I never thought about the smell, Skinner.  In those
Brady photos, with all the dead, I never wondered
about the smell."

"Is there anything we can do to help?" Skinner asked
calmly.

"I won't leave while Spender's here.  You go to the
clinic--" Mulder stopped in midsentence.  The big man
standing before him was not only his employee, but also
his oldest friend.  "I would *appreciate* it if you
would go to the clinic.  People are gathering there
for news of their loved ones."

"Fire.  It will be impossible to identify everyone who
died," Skinner commented.

Mulder pictured the blackened bodies on the sidewalk, the
lifeless girls loaded onto carts and wagons.  

"I shouldn't have asked you," Mulder said.   Skinner
didn't need to be immersed in the pit of grief at the 
clinic, not when his own father died in a fire.

"I'll go.  I want to help."

"It's too much.  And I need you here."

"You don't need me here."  Skinner thumped him heavily
on the shoulder.  "Draw your own bath."

Mulder bathed and dressed hurriedly, and when he
returned to the nursery his daughter had recovered
from her tantrum.  Mulder took her in his lap and held
her against his heart.

"Mama, Papa, May," she said.

"That's right.  Mama, Papa, Mairead.  Mama is helping
people who are hurt, and then she'll come home to
Mairead."

"Mama come home?"

"Soon, darling, soon."

"Would you like me to take her, sir?" Miss Muir asked.

"Thank you, no."

"Then I'll have my supper now, if that's all right."

Mulder cradled his child.

"Sing, Papa," she said.

When Katie sang, Mairead was delighted and entranced. 
Mulder's songs never found that same reception.

"Are you sure, darling?  Are you very, very sure?"

"Sing!"

He cleared his throat.

"Cuddle up a little closer, lovey mine. . . "

"No, no!  Like Mama!"

"If you like-a me, like I like-a you. . ."

"Like Mama!"

"Mairead, Papa can't sing like Mama.  Only a magpie
can sing like Mama."

"Sing!"

Mairead thought it was a wonderful game, and Mulder
had to agree, marveling at how his tiny daughter could
brighten his spirits.

Soon she grew sleepy, and Mulder settled her into her
crib.  Eyes closed, her chubby little hand rooted around
until it touched her favorite flannel blanket.  She pulled
the edge of the blanket up to her cheek.  Mulder closed
the door quietly behind him.  

He wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed with
Katie, but she wasn't here and Cornelius Spender was. 
Mulder descended the front stairs to make peace with
his mother and impose some limits on her guest.  He
considered stopping in his suite for a short glass of
whiskey but chose not to.  

Spender was alone in the drawing room, smoking as
always. Mulder found he still couldn't smell the
cigarette.

"Your mother retired for the night," Spender said.

"How kind of her to go to bed, so that you might
finally go home," Mulder said icily.

"You're quite outspoken when your mother isn't here."

"Be sure to inform her, so that I may be suitably
chastised."

Mulder glared, but Spender looked away.

"I didn't want it to be like this. Please, might we
start again?"

"I hardly see the point," Mulder said.

The old man stood up and walked to the sideboard
where he poured two generous portions of whiskey
from the heavy decanter.

"Let's share a wee drop, as your wife's people say."

"Gladly, if this is the parting glass."

"I understand your resentment, Fox, but in truth I've
always been your champion. I want nothing more than
your success and happiness."

"Then perhaps you will grant me a favor."

"I won't turn my back on your mother, if that was your
request. Are you so selfish that you can't see what
my attention means to her?"

"It doesn't concern my mother. It's for another one
of your dear friends. Diana Fowley."

"I would do anything for the lovely Mrs. Fowley."

"Good. Bring back her daughter."

Spender nodded to himself as smoke curled from his
nostrils.

"Diana Fowley is the widow of Hirum Fowley, and there
were no issue from that union," he said.

"As we both know," Mulder said.

"You do realize, Fox, that it is only because nobody
knows of her daughter that Mrs. Fowley has retained
her place in society."

"She wants to see her daughter. If you had a child
of your own, you would understand."

"You seem quite certain that I don't," Spender said.

"You have no right to keep Diana away from her
daughter."  Mulder was careful to say "daughter," 
and not to reveal that he had learned the girl's 
name.

"After arranging for the girl's safe upbringing and
keeping the secret of her birth for all these years,
I'd say I have every right. Have you taken a moment
to consider the daughter's feelings?"

Mulder had to admit, if only to himself, that he
hadn't.

"If that is truly your concern, the daughter need not
know that Diana is her mother. A simple meeting is
all she asks."

"Your Katie is a generous woman. Most wives would be
vexed if their husband took such pains to help an old
lover," Spender said.

"Do you know where the daughter is, or don't you?"
Mulder asked.

"I'll consider your request," Spender said, with a
sly, sickening grin. "I must remember to congratulate
your wife on her tolerance."

"I've told you that your friendship with my mother is
acceptable, but I forbid you to bother my wife and my
daughter."

"Mairead is a beautiful, precious child. Why are you
so determined to keep me from her?"

Mulder's voice grew calm and deadly.

"Leave her alone," he said.

Spender proffered his packet of cigarettes before
selecting one for himself.

"Why are you afraid of me?" he asked.  "Because I 
sing silly songs to please a baby?"

"Why are you so interested in my daughter?"

Spender lit his cigarette, then settled into a chair.

"Please, have a seat," he said, as if he was the
master of the house and Mulder was his guest.  "I
gather Mrs. Fowley has you convinced I snatched the
baby from her arms and made away with her."

Mulder sat down, enduring Spender's manners to hear
what he would say.

"You know where her daughter is."

"I arranged for the child to be raised in the country.
Vermont.  A lovely setting."  He eyed Mulder.  "The
family is named O'Connor, and they called the child
Grace."

"Grace O'Connor," Mulder repeated.  It confirmed what
Moe Bocks had uncovered.

"Unfortunately, she ran away from home.  As headstrong
and foolish as her mother was at that age."

"Where is she now?"  Mulder asked.  Bocks was certain
that Grace had arrived in New York, but there he had
lost the trail.  At least she was not working in the
flesh trade, as Bocks had first suspected.

"I don't know, Fox."  He pursed his lips and released
a plume of smoke.  "You don't believe me?"

"You tried to force Diana into marrying me, in
exchange for the whereabouts of her daughter."

Spender nodded, apologetically.

"A blunder, I confess."

The man's gall was beyond measure.

"You threatened harm to her daughter if she failed to
snare me," Mulder continued.

"Simple bluster.  A silly, regretable business, and
I'm glad it's over."

"Fowley Steamships suffered heavy reversals when Diana
disappointed you."

Spender laughed.

"Your very public, very humiliating repudiation of the
engagement struck the first blow.  A company with a
lovesick, delusional woman at the helm does not fare
well."

Mulder was well aware that he had hurt Diana and her
company when he announced that there was no engagement
and would be no marriage.  His remorse had only grown
once he learned the circumstances that had forced
Diana to her singleminded pursuit.

"I struck the first blow, but not the last," he said.

Spender nodded.

"You're very astute.  I had my hand in the merger of
the two Hamburg lines, but that was simply sound
business.  In any event, Fowley Steamships has
recovered nicely, thanks in large part to your
generosity."

"Sound business practice," Mulder said, although his
maneuvers had been motivated by guilt as well.

"We're both men of the world," Spender said,
stretching comfortably in his chair.  "Your partner 
is more of a provincialist."

Dewitt Traut was currently in England, and Mulder was
all but certain that Spender knew it.

"Oh, he's an Anglophile, and a firm friend of Sir
Warwick, but he doesn't grasp that the dollar forges
its own alliances," Spender continued.

"Something you see very clearly," Mulder said
cautiously.  

"Most of the great Jewish banks have an interest in
Germany.  Many got their start there."

"And Germany has become an increasingly inhospitable
place for them to conduct business," Mulder said.

"A misfortune for the Kaiser as well as the Jews.  An
opportunity for others."

"Hm," Mulder said.  

Spender was correct when he said that the dollar
forged its own alliances.  When you sent it abroad
your allegiance went with it, and in the tangled web
of European coalitions and federations that was an
uncertain proposition.  But risk was not the only
concern.

William Mulder had never allowed his purse to
determine his loyalty, and his son shared that
principle.

"It's time for American business to drop their
chauvinism," Spender said.

The sentiments were not unique, but the language was
familiar.  Alex Krycek, the gifted protege that Mulder
had come to mistrust, spoke in similar terms, and with
similar passion.  

It took all Mulder's will to maintain a neutral
expression, but he couldn't help grinding his teeth. 
Spender had somehow insinuated his agent into the
firm, and Mulder had chosen to take him on as his
assistant.

"The trouble with foreign investment is that you can
find yourself backing both sides in a single match,"
Mulder said, casually.  

"That doesn't have to be a problem."

"You could find yourself betting against your own
country."

Spender leaned forward.

"Not if your sphere extended into the government of
your country, as well as its finances.  We spoke of
this once, shortly before your father died."

"You accosted me in the street, but you wouldn't tell
me your name," Mulder said.  

"We discussed your interest in helping the poor, and
how a career in politics could support that goal.  I
assured you that your marriage to a Catholic girl need
not be a hindrance."

"You all but offered to place me the Presidency."

Spender smiled.

"I have considerable influence."

"Among deranged anarchists."  

Spender dropped his cigarette, which bounced from his
leg onto the floor.  Hastily he leaned down to snatch
it back.

"Assassination is so crude," he said.

"Forgive me if I don't find you particularly subtle."

Spender stubbed out the rescued cigarette and withdrew
a replacement from his pack.

"I like you, Fox."

Instead of answering, Mulder sipped his whiskey.

"I don't care if you like me.  I'd rather have your
respect," Spender continued.

Mulder wished, suddenly, that he had his own
cigarettes, or a cigar, or something to do with his
hands.  

"You may be rude and sarcastic, but you do respect me.
You respect my power and you respect what I can
accomplish.  You're intelligent enough to see that
power has its own agenda, and you're enough of dreamer
to hope that it can be used for good."  Again Spender
proffered a cigarette, and this time Mulder took it.

"You're a practical man, Mr. Spender.  I am as well,"
he said.

"I'm pleased to hear it."

"The girl known as Grace O'Connor. . . You have no
reason to wish her harm," Mulder said.

"None whatsoever."

"And Mrs. Fowley herself?"

"I bear her no ill will.  But these are small
matters--"

"I trust that you'll inform me of Grace's whereabouts,
it you learn them."  Mulder rose and offered Spender
his hand.  Spender stood to accept it.  

"I'll see myself out, Fox.  I know the way."

Mulder lowered himself into an armchair, his legs
no longer able to support his weight.  In the distance,
he listened to the sounds of Spender's retreat.  Energy
drained out of him like water though a sieve and his
head dropped back against the back of the chair.

Mulder's head was spinning and he wished Katie were 
there.  If only he'd been able to tell her about
Grace O'Connor and why he'd been so evasive, but
Diana had begged him to keep her secret from everyone--
even his wife.

Spender worried him, more now then ever before.  There
were pieces of a puzzle before him, all of them having
to do with Cornelius Spender.  The picture that was
emerging as the pieces fell into place was one of either
evil or madness.  Mulder wasn't sure which was more
frighening.

The only thing he knew for sure was that he had to
question Alex Krycek in the morning.  Krycek hadn't 
come back after lunch.  Morris Fletcher actually seemed 
to enjoy delivering the news that Mulder's prodigy
was unaccounted for.

Mulder got up and poured himself another drink.  The
house was quiet now.  The ticking of the grandfather
clock was the only sound except for the occasional
footstep on the backstairs as the servants retired
for the night.  Earlier, he'd spoken to Edgar, who told
him that the entire staff had assembled that evening 
to make sandwiches.   They must have finally finished 
cleaning the kitchen.

He was on his third drink when weariness finally overtook
him and he dropped into a restless sleep.  He woke to 
the smell of smoke.  If that lying, smoking bastard had 
returned, Mulder would kill him.

"Mulder?  Wake up, love."  A cool hand caressed his
cheek.  He opened his eyes to concerned blue eyes 
staring out of a soot-covered pale face.

"Katie," he breathed.  He pushed himself out of the 
chair and drew her into a fierce embrace. 

"I'm filthy," she said, pulling out of his arms.
"I need to wash up."

She was swaying on her feet, probably tired enough to
drop.  

"Come on," he said, putting an arm around her waist.
"Let me take care of you."

Mulder left Katie slowly unbuttoning her grimy blouse 
while he ran her bath.  When he returned to the bedroom, 
he found her standing, hands frozen on the little pearls.

"Here," he said, pushing her hands aside.  "Let me do 
that."  

Mulder helped her out of her clothes and into the
warm bath water.  After washing her hair, she lay 
against the back of the tub, her eyes closed.  

"Every bone in my body aches," she said as she slid
down until the water reached her chin.  She didn't
talk about the horrors of the day and neither did he.  
It was enough to have been there and seen it.

"My poor Katie," he said, stirring the surface of the
water with his fingers.  "I had a letter from Jim
Parker.  He said Kevin seems happy on the farm."

"It has to be hard for him," she murmured, sleepily.   
"He only knows the city."

"Parker said Kevin milked his first cow."

"Oh dear," Katie smiled.  "That must have been 
something to see."  

"Did I ever tell you about my first time?" he asked.
"I was eleven and my parents sent me to the farm to 
get me out of their hair.  Father had given Jim orders to
put me to work, so he took me out to the barn and pointed
to the cow.  I'll admit to being a bit apprehensive as I
sat down on the stool and reached for the udder with both 
hands.  I'm not sure where I went wrong--perhaps my hands 
were cold.  But one thing was clear--the cow did *not* 
like my technique.  The great beast let out a mighty 
bellow and I fell ass over teakettle off the stool."
 
Katie sputtered with laughter, as he'd hoped she
would.  It was a sound he'd missed more than he 
could have imagined.

"I wish I'd been there," she said, yawning.

"I wish you'd been there too," he said.  "I could have
used an ally.  It looks like you're ready for bed."

Mulder helped her out of the tub, wrapping her in
a towel.  His arm was around her shoulders and she
leaned into him, dampening his clothes.  When she was
dressed in her nightgown, Mulder toweled her hair
dry.   While he sometimes missed her beautiful long
locks, but he had to admit short hair was far more
practical.

Mulder stripped off his clothes, suddenly too tired
to find his pajamas.  He climbed into bed behind
Katie, holding her in his arms as they fell asleep.

It was a poor night's sleep for both of them.  
Katie's tossing woke Mulder up more than once.   
Before dawn he gave up on sleep, pulled on some
pajamas and climbed the stairs to see if Skinner was
awake.  Finding no sign of activity and concluding
that his friend was either sleeping or had not
returned, he went to his sitting room and telephoned
to the clinic.

It was Mrs. Tibby who answered the phone.  The old
lady seemed to instinctively turn up wherever she was
needed.  Mr. Skinner, she informed him, was busy with
taking people to the morgue to search for loved ones
lost, and seeing they got home safely from there.  

Mulder returned to his chambers to dress, thinking
perhaps to relieve Skinner of his morbid task.  He
found Katie awake, and Mairead dozing in her arms.

"I needed to hold her," Katie explained
unnecessarily.

He sat next to her, curving an arm around them
both.  Katie nuzzled her head under his chin and
sighed.  

"All those girls, Mulder.  Their mothers held them
and rocked them and now they're gone.  Why?  Why
did this happen?"

"I don't know why," he said.  "The only thing
I know for sure is that you will do everything in
your power to help."

"Well, I had best get moving if I'm going to do that,"
she said, placing Mairead in his arms.  She disappeared
into the dressing room and Mulder looked down at
his child.

Mairead's eyes were open, though she seemed confused
at waking in her parents bed.  

"May pobbige now," she announced, seriously.

"Yes, Mairead should have her porridge.  Shall Papa
call Mr. Edgar?"  Mairead squirmed with joy at the 
prospect of breakfast.  Mulder made the necessary call
to Edgar and played with Mairead until breakfast
arrived.  In the sitting room, Edgar placed a large 
tray holding several dome-covered plates, a coffee 
service and cups.

"What do we have here?" Mulder asked, removing the 
warming cover on the bowl of porridge. "Oh, it's 
Mairead's breakfast."

He sat at the table, holding Mairead on his lap and
dipped a spoon into the porridge. 

"Me do!  Me do!" Mairead crowed, reaching for the
spoon.

"You'll both be wearing it, if you let her," Katie
said, entering the room.  She poured coffee for them
both.

"Me! Me!"

Thirty minutes later, Mairead was handed over to 
Miss Muir for a bath and Mulder changed clothes.  

"I'll drive you to the clinic," Mulder said as they
descended the stairs.  Katie looked up at him and
smiled.  

Church bells rang out in the cold air.  Countless
homilies would be spoken that morning, offering
comfort to the families, attempting to make sense
of a senseless loss. 

"Are you coming in?" Katie asked, as he pulled up
in front of the clinic.  A crowd was clustered
by the front door, with more people visible through
the front window.  

"I have something I must attend to," Mulder said,
squeezing her hand.  "But I'll be back as soon as
I can."

For weeks, Mulder had known that Alex Krycek was 
not his loyal assistant but rather a shadowy figure 
with unfathomable motives.  He had postponed a
confrontation so that he could uncover Krycek's
purpose.  Now he could wait no longer.

As he drove to Krycek's lodgings, he was glad he 
had kept his suspicions hidden.  He would approach 
Krycek as a friend and seek his advice on several 
matters.  Undoubtedly Krycek would be startled by 
the early morning visit, but Mulder would explain,
apologetically, that the hideous tragedy had 
unsettled his routine and his manners.

He parked the Pierce Arrow and found Alex's address
without difficulty.  He climbed the few stairs to the
building entrance and pressed the buzzer labeled
"Krycek."  After two more attempts he pressed the
buzzer for the concierge marked "Froelich."

The woman who responded regarded him sternly through
thick spectacles.   She was wrapped in a stiff, gray
and white striped dressing gown, though she seemed 
wide awake.

"Are you here to see the rooms?" she asked.

"I'm here to see Mr. Krycek."

"Then you're a day late.  But if you'd like a nice,
clean place to live, you're right on time."

"Very good.  I would like to see the rooms," Mulder
answered.

The woman brightened.

"Right up the stairs."

She led and he followed.

"Murray Hill.  Very fashionable here.  And you 
look like a respectable young man."

"You say that Mr. Krycek moved out?"

"Yes he did, and very sudden too."

"Did he say why?"

"He was needed at home."

The woman's cheerful disposition made it obvious 
that Krycek hadn't left in arears.

"Where is his home?" Mulder asked.

"I don't think he mentioned."

They reached the second floor and continued up the
stairs.

"I must explain about the colored man," the woman
said.  "He's only here to collect what Mr. Krycek 
left behind."   

"Mr. Krycek left without his things?"

"Just some envelopes and papers.  He told me a 
colored man would come to get them, but very clean 
and polite."  

"He's here right now?" Mulder asked.

"I don't rent to them, you understand.  He's only here
to collect Mr. Krycek's things."  

At the third floor, Mrs.Froelich turned the knob on
one of the doors.

"He locked it," she said, puzzled.  She rapped
vigorously.  "Open up, boy.  You open that door."

The lock clicked and the door opened.

"My humble apologies, m'am."  Soft words spoken
quietly, yet Mrs. Froelich took a step back.

"Oh. . . no need to apologize."

The man was impressive without being unusually tall 
or muscular. His very posture conveyed power and
confidence. Yet when he noticed Mulder standing 
behind Mrs. Froelich, his stony expression changed 
to surprise.  Mulder was sure that the man 
recognized him.

"Do you know Mr. Krycek?" Mulder asked.

"I'm leaving now."

Mulder could have blocked his passage to the stairs,
but instead he turned and followed.

"You didn't see your rooms!" Mrs. Froelich called
after him.

Just above the second floor the colored man stopped
and whirled around.

"Go back upstairs, Mr. Mulder."

"Who are you?  What do you know of Krycek?" Mulder
asked.   "And how do you know my name?"

"If you persist in following me I'll be forced to
break your neck."

"Unless I break yours first," Mulder said.  

"Look at the rooms, Mr. Mulder.  Look carefully."

Mulder couldn't say what he read in the man's steady
gaze, but he turned and ran back up the stairs.  For 
a while Mrs. Froelick watched as he examined the
furnishings, opening drawers and looking under the
rugs.  Then she grew bored and told him she would be
downstairs when he was ready.

He stood in the center of the room.  There was no 
trace of Krycek, not so much as a scrap of paper.
He opened the clothes cupboard, finding nothing but
bare hooks.  The shelf at the top was empty, but when
Mulder ran his hand over the wood, he felt slippery
paper.  He pulled down several photographs, all of
his family.  One picture showed Miss Muir and Mairead
descending the front steps of the brownstone, another
showed himself and Katie as they pushed Mairead through 
Central Park in her pushchair.  

Mulder felt the chill of fear as the fingers holding
the photographs went numb.  He had to go home, had
to make sure that Mairead was safe.

"Where are you going?" Mrs. Froelich asked as she
followed him down the stairs.  "Those rooms will be
snapped right up.  You can reserve them for a small
fee."

Mulder pushed past her without a word.  The photo
still in his hand, he got into the Pierce Arrow and
drove for home.

"Is everything all right, sir?" Edgar asked as Mulder
tore through the front door.  

"I hope so," Mulder muttered as he passed Edgar and
took the stairs two at a time.  "Is my mother at home?"

"Yes, sir.  I believe she's in her sitting room."

Mulder stopped, turning to face Edgar down in the 
foyer.  "Has Mr. Spender been here this morning?"

"No, sir.  Not to my knowledge."

He needed to speak with his mother, but first, he had to 
know that Mairead was safe.   Someone was tracking his 
family, watching their comings and goings.  There were 
forces at work, people whose motives were hidden and 
probably dangerous,and his family was of interest to
them.

He found Mairead happily playing in the nursery, 
stacking blocks with her nurse.

"Papa," she said, looking up at him and raising her 
arms to be picked up.  

"I'm sorry, Sweetness.  I can't play now.  Papa just 
wanted to make sure you were safe.  Miss Muir, 
please keep Mairead indoors today, while Mr. Skinner
is tied up at the clinic."   

"Certainly, sir," she replied, worry crossing her
face. 

"It's just a precaution--there's nothing to worry
about as long as you stay in the house.  And now,
I'll leave you two to build your tower."

He knocked on his mother's door, entering to find her
sipping tea.
 
"Fox, dear.  Where have you been this morning?"

"I had an errand to run.  Mother, do you have plans
today with Mr. Spender?"

"I did, dear, though I'm not sure why that should matter
to anyone but me.  His manservant came by early this
morning with a note saying he wouldn't be able to visit."

"His manservant?"

"Yes, dear.  A most unusual man.  Very articulate, 
well-dressed.  You don't expect a colored man to 
speak so well."

Mulder swallowed hard, as the importance of that bit of 
information registered.

"Do you know where Mr. Spender lives, Mother?"

"I'm not sure...wait a moment," she said, crossing to 
the escritoire.   She removed a sheet of paper from
an envelope.  "His note was written on stationery
from the Plaza Hotel."

"Thank you, Mother," he said as he rose and walked
to the door.  

"Fox?" Teena Mulder called after him.  "Will you be
home for luncheon?"

"Probably not, Mother."

He could barely keep his hands from shaking as he
drove to the Plaza.  As he entered the lobby, he
remembered checking in with Katie when they returned
from their honeymoon.  That seemed so long ago.

"Excuse me," he said to the desk clerk.  "I'm looking
for Cornelius Spender."

"Ah yes, Mr. Mulder, isn't it?  I believe Mr. Spender
went into the Oak Room a little while ago."

Mulder nodded to the man and strode off in the direction
of the bar.  Even in late morning, the nearly deserted 
bar was dimly lit.  With its oak paneling and mural of 
old New York, it spoke of money and power.  

He smelled Spender before he saw him, the plume of smoke 
from his cigarette rising above his grizzled head.  He
lounged back in his chair, a glass of whiskey on the 
table before him.

"Ah, Fox," Spender said.  "I thought you might come to
visit.  Sit down.  Sit down."

Mulder remained standing, fists clenched at his sides.

"I will not have you intruding on my family."

"How selfish of you.  Your mother and I have been
close friends since before you were born."

"Stay away from my wife and daughter."

"Mairead claps her hands when she sees me."

Mulder's voice grew calm and deadly.

"Leave my family alone," he said.

Spender stubbed his cigarette out in the large glass
ashtray on the table.

"So dramatic, Fox."  His smirk changed to a sneer. "A
modern Hamlet, wailing because his widowed mother
shares her favors with an old friend."

Bile rose in Mulder's throat.

"Only a devil would utter such calumny."

"The truth is never slander.  Your mother and I have
been far more than friends since before you were
born."

"You bastard."

"And what does that make you?  Your mother, while
utterly delightful, is not the lady you thought her 
to be."  He eyed Mulder as he lit a new cigarette.  
"The man you called your father, so dismissive, so 
quick to find fault. . .  It all makes sense now."

Mulder felt as if time itself had ceased, and
Spender's words came to him from far away.

"Your uncle Dewitt, trying to smooth the way, because
whoever you were really, you were the Mulder heir and
namesake.  Your own grandfather--the man you thought
was your grandfather--he must have known as well.  And
when you were in England, Sir Warwick never so much as
hinted.  Every person who might have told you the
truth chose to lie to you." 

It doesn't matter, Mulder told himself.  In his world
of three, nothing had changed.  

"If you hurt my daughter in any way I will kill you,"
he said.

"I would never hurt her.  After all, she is my 
granddaughter."  

*********************************************
 
"Mulder?  Are you coming to bed?" Katie asked
gently.  

Mulder sat at the desk in the library, a glass of
whiskey in one hand and a photograph in the other.

"Soon," he said, his eyes still on the picture.

"You've been so contemplative, lately.  I'm 
worried about you."

"I'm fine, Katie," he replied.  "No need to worry."

He finally looked up, and Katie saw the weariness in
his face.  

"What are you looking at?"

He turned the photograph to show her.  It was "Quitting
Time," the picture he'd taken of the factory girls 
leaving work on payday.  Their arms were linked and 
they were joyful.  

"I took this outside the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory.
It was only today that I recognized the location."

"I wonder if any of them survived," Katie said.

"This was the first picture I'd ever sold.  God,
that was so long ago."

"Not so long," Katie said.  "I remember that day.  
We went to Coney Island to celebrate."

Mulder smiled.

"We went to the moon," he said.  "And then when I 
came home, Skinner battered me until I saw stars."

Katie stroked his head.

"I lied to you, and you forgave me," Mulder said.

"I think, now, that they weren't really lies.  When
you were with me, you believed them," Katie answered.

He seemed to flinch, then took a long drink from his
glass.  Katie stood behind him, rubbing his shoulders.
She felt his bones more distinctly; she was afraid
he wasn't eating properly.  Many nights, he came home
late and went right to the library, refusing any dinner.
She had assumed he was still upset about the tragedy,
but now, she wondered if something else was on his 
mind.

They had talked about the fire, about the losses,
about what needed to be done.  Mulder had confessed
that he'd foreseen this type of disaster, and that he
should have done more to prevent it.

Katie wondered why she found herself better able to
carry on than her husband.  Perhaps she'd seen more of
death than he had, or perhaps it was because her work
let her feel she was doing something to help.

"Then I'm a fool," Mulder said.

"Never, love," Katie reassured him.

"If I believe in lies, I'm a fool or a madman."

With a sigh, Katie pulled an armchair closer to 
the desk and sat down.  

"I was looking for my lost sister--another lie,"
Mulder said.  "She wasn't lost, she was hiding."

"Not from you, from your parents.  From a 
marriage she didn't want."

"And now she's leaving New York.  But I'll see no 
less of her than when she lived here," Mulder said.

He had acknowledged the wisdom of Sean Pendrell
establishing his Little Dynamo factory in Michigan, 
but Katie knew he saw it as a final end to his hope 
of bringing Samantha closer into his life.

Sitting up half the night and drinking whiskey 
would only bring him more melancholy.

"I'm quite exhausted," Katie said.

Mulder moved the photograph to a corner of this desk.

"Then we must get you to bed," he said, rising at
last.  "And please, love, think about what I said.  
I want you to hire more nurses for the clinic."

Katie nodded sleepily.  If only Mulder wasn't 
forced to work such long hours.  As it was, 
Morris Fletcher saw more of her husband than 
she did, and Miss Muir saw more of her baby.

If only hiring more nurses was as easy as Mulder
seemed to think. Katie had advertised for more
help, hoping to find a compassionate woman with 
good nursing skills.  It had proved a depressingly
difficult task.

She contacted nursing employment agencies, but they
were accustomed to placing nurses for special duty
with wealthy patients.  The few nurses they sent
for interviews were uncomfortable working with the 
poor and fled almost immediately after taking a tour 
of the clinic.

Some of the candidates were well-meaning, but 
lacked experience.  Others had grown hard by 
working with the poor.  It amazed Katie that the
women who had pulled themselves out of the slums
seemed to be the least sympathetic, as if the only
way they could rise from poverty was by turning
their backs on the poor.

"Honestly, Mulder, I've tried.  Shayna thinks I'm
being too finicky."

"Perhaps she's right.  You'll have to settle for
someone less than perfect, because there's only one
Katie Mulder," he said.

His fingers were caressing her bottom in a manner she
would have appreciated more if she had not been so
tired.

"Would you be able to help me?  I have no experience
in hiring, and you have so much," she said.

"I don't know when I would have the time.  I can send
someone over to help you," he said with a sigh.

"I shouldn't have asked you."

"You know I'm shouldering DT's share, in his absence,"
Mulder reminded her.

"That's the only thing I miss about having Mr. Spender
about.  While he was our constant visitor, you managed
to be home for dinner."

Some two weeks ago Mr. Xavier had delivered a cartload 
of flowers to the mansion, along with the message that 
Cornelius Spender would be away on business.  Teena's 
disappointment had been predictable.  Oddly, Mulder 
had greeted the news with suspicion rather than relief.

Mulder's hands stopped their play.

"What are you implying?" he asked.

Somehow her simple observation had irritated her moody
husband.

"Your mother has been lonely, since his departure.  It
would be nice if you could be home more," she said.

"Did my mother complain to you that she was lonely? 
That her days were empty without 'Dear Cornelius'?"
Mulder asked.

"Why, no.  I only thought--"

"Then don't concern yourself with my mother's
activities."

"I...I wasn't trying to meddle," she said, placing
a gentle hand on his arm.  "Mulder, is something 
the matter?"

"Nothing is the matter."   His muscles felt like
steel cables under her hand.  "You should get to
bed."

"So should you."

"Later, love.  Right now, I have some preparations
to make for a meeting in the morning."

He kissed her forehead and left before she could
protest.  As Katie undressed and got ready for
bed, she puzzled over Mulder's outburst.  He'd
been out of sorts for weeks, working late at
the office, sequestered in the library for hours
every evening.  The glass of whiskey seemed to be
a permanent fixture in his hand.

Katie fell asleep worrying about her husband, rousing
briefly when he slid into bed beside her.  When she
woke in the morning, his side of the bed was empty,
a depression in the featherbed the only sign that 
he'd been there at all.

She took her breakfast in the nursery.  Spending 
time with Mairead usually cheered Katie, but today, 
even the baby's chatter couldn't raise her spirits.  
 
"Mama go bye-bye?" Mairead asked, as Katie bent to 
kiss her smooth, pink cheek.  There were no tears, 
no protests, just a happy child making a 
matter-of-fact statement.  Katie wanted to cry.

"Yes, sweetheart.  Mama has to go bye-bye, but she'll
come back soon."

Mairead's attention returned to her breakfast.  With
great concentration, she spooned a bit of egg into 
her mouth.  Sighing deeply, Katie left the nursery.  

Dunham held the car door open as she stepped in.  
The morning was bright and clear, though a bit 
chilly.  She settled back against the seat.

"Would you please stop and buy a newspaper," she 
asked as they pulled away from the curb.

"Certainly, Mrs. Katherine."  

Teena maintained that well-bred women didn't read 
the newspaper.  The news coverage was far too coarse 
and upsetting for ladies to be exposed to.  Katie 
usually read the paper in her suite, or away from 
the house, in order to avoid a lecture.

Katie hadn't known Teena before William Mulder's 
illness and death, but she remembered a woman from 
the early days of her marriage who was fairly 
knowledgeable about current events.  Katie suspected 
the disapproval of the news was courtesy of Cornelius
Spender, who would read aloud the articles he thought
Teena would enjoy, saving her delicate sensibilities 
from any ugliness.

Dunham pulled over at the corner, running over to pay 
a newsboy for the paper.  He presented the newspaper 
to Katie.  

"INDICT OWNERS OF BURNED FACTORY," the headline shouted.
Shaking her head, Katie read the article.  It was much
as Mulder had predicted--blame and public outrage.

In the weeks after the fire, terrible details surfaced
about the tragedy.  Of the 143 victims, all but fifteen
were women, most of them young and hardworking.  But
the doors on the ninth floor were locked, reportedly
to prevent the theft of fabric.  The workers were
trapped.  Many chose to leap from the windows,
rather than be burned by the flames.  

Now, Isaac Harris and Max Blanck, joint owners of the 
Triangle Waist Company had been indicted for 
manslaughter.  The Women's Trade Union League was
calling for reform.  Katie hoped some good would come
out of this horrible tragedy--that safety and working
conditions would improve under the public scrutiny.

Patients already crowded the waiting room when Katie
arrived at the clinic.  Shayna circulated with her
clipboard, clucking her tongue in sympathy at the
various ailments.

The clinic had returned to its function as a  medical 
facility, no longer a gathering place for the families 
of the victims, but it was no less busy in the aftermath.

Broken fingers, cuts, and burns were testimony
to minds that were too preoccupied to pay attention
to work.  Some of the victims still suffered from
the effects of smoke inhalation, so the clinic treated 
numerous respiratory ailments.   Sorrow was hard on 
the human body.

"We've got a sore throat, an earache, a swollen ankle
and a bellyache," Shayna announced as she followed
Katie into the kitchen where Vincent stood drinking
coffee.  "What's yer pleasure?"

"I'll see the earache first," Vincent said.

"Good, he's in the examining room, already."  

"Why do you even bother asking if you've already
made the decision?" Vincent asked, laughing.  

"Just trying to make you feel important."

He left for the examining room. shaking his head.   
Katie poured herself a cup of coffee. 

"How is Izzy doing?"

"Oh Katie, all that boy does is mope around the house
and draw pitchers."

"Pictures?" Katie asked.  "Pictures of what?"

"Of girls.  Girls with fire, girls standing at the
window.  It scares me, Katie.  He don't talk.  He
don't play stickball.  I don't know what I'm gonna
do with him."

Katie thought about Izzy during the long day.  Like
all the survivors, he was plagued with questions.  
Why did they die?  Why did I live?   There were no
answers to give him.

The day wound down and the clinic was finally empty 
of patients.  In her office, Katie gathered up the 
clinic's books to work on after Mairead went to sleep 
when she heard voices in the waiting room.

Arial Luria was speaking quickly and in Yiddish to
Shayna.  Katie's Yiddish was extremely limited, but
she gathered that Arial was worried about her father.

"What's the matter?" Vincent said as he came into the
waiting room.  

"Her father must be sick or hurt.  Jacob Weiss," Katie
said.

"Please, he is barely alive," Arial begged, in
English. 

"I'll get my bag," Vincent said.  

"I'll come with you," Katie said.  It seemed like much
more than a few years ago that Katie had helped Arial
and her husband with their sick baby.  

"Are you sure, Katie?" Vincent asked, as he returned
with his coat and satchel.  "You should get home to
your family."

"This sounds serious," she replied.

They piled into Vincent's automobile and he drove 
to the building where Jacob Weiss shared a flat with
the Luria family.  

Isaac Luria met them at the door with three-year-old
Sofie in his arms.  

"I'm so sorry, my darling," he said. 

"But the doctor is here.  He will be all right now!"
Arial protested.

Isaac tried to hold her back, but she followed
Vincent into the back room, leaving Katie by the door
with little Sofie.

"Zaydeh went to sleep," Sofie announced.

From the rear of the apartment came a piercing scream,
and then sobbing.

Katie took the little girl onto her lap.

"Mama's crying," Sofie said.  "Papa cried too, but
he didn't make noise."

When Arial reappeared, she was silent.

"Mama?" Sofie said.  Arial looked at her in surprise,
as if she'd forgotten she was there.

"Mama's going to get some air," Arial said, heading
for the door.

"Mama, your coat!"

Katie pressed Sofie into Vincent's care and hurried to
follow Arial.

"Where are you going?" she asked, when she caught up
to Arial on the staircase.  The other woman didn't
answer.

Katie soon understood that Arial had no destination,
and they walked up one block, down another.  The
evening was a little cool, and Katie took off her own
coat and hung it over Arial's shoulder.

"You are wondering what kind of daughter would let her
father die," Arial said at last.

"You are the best, most loving daughter there could
be.  It's not in our hands who lives and who dies,"
Katie said.

"He was like a lost person, after the fire.  He didn't
eat, he didn't sleep.  Heartache, I thought, because I
felt sick in my own heart as well," Arial said.

"Of course."

"Then I caught a fever.  I was so tired with just
cooking and cleaning, I didn't think to take care of
my father.  Grief needs time, I thought, that he just
needed time."

Katie shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself.  As
they passed under a streetlight, Katie saw tears rolling
down Arial's pale face.

"The other morning Sofie spilled her milk.  Tateh
screamed at her like a crazy person, and then I had
angry words for him too.  He went back in his bed and
he stayed there.  And then I should have known he was
sick."

"You mustn't blame yourself," Katie said.

"The next morning I knew.  I made him go to our bed,
in the bedroom, and I made Sofie be quiet.  I took him
a glass of tea, but he couldn't drink.  He couldn't 
even take a breath without coughing and coughing.  
He felt like it was cannonfire inside his head.  
And he was hot then, a terrible fever.  But I waited 
for Isaac to come home before I went for the doctor."

"Arial--"

"Downstairs they have a telephone.  I shouldn't have
waited for my husband."

Katie sighed, helplessly.  Arial was right, that grief
needed time.

They walked in silence for several blocks, and then
Arial headed for home.  The apartment was full of
people when a worried-looking Isaac opened the door
for them.  Arial hugged him, then her daughter, then
both together.

"Please come in," Arial invited her, but Katie said
she would call later in the week.  

"Thank you for taking care of her," Isaac said.

It was late by the time Katie got home.  The house
was quiet, the servant's bustle over for the night.
It had been many hours since she had eaten last,
but Katie had no appetite tonight.  

Leaning heavily on the banister, Katie climbed
the stairs.  Yellow light shown from under the 
library door, and she was tempted to knock on the
door.  She would love nothing more than to wrap
herself in Mulder's warm arms.   With a sigh,
Katie passed by the closed door.

Things had been so strained between them, lately.  
Of course, their life together had never been simple.  
In the beginning, their relationship had been built 
on an untruth.   She'd hoped they'd moved past
that, that their love was strong enough to be a
new foundation for their lives.  

But in the last few weeks, Katie had begun to wonder.
Mulder was hiding something from her, an anguish 
that he apparently didn't feel he could share with 
her.   Silence from Mulder was not new--he'd kept 
secrets over Diana Fowley, but Katie feared that 
whatever was bothering Mulder now was far more 
serious.   She'd hoped that by this point in their
marriage, Mulder would trust her with anything,
but whatever this thing was, he chosen to bury it
inside of him.

The nursery was darkened; no light was visible from
under Miss Muir's bedroom door.  Moonlight was the
only illumination, but it allowed Katie to see
Mairead's sweet face as the child slept in her crib.  
The baby lay on her back, rosebud lips parted, 
chubby hands gently curled on either side of her head.  

Katie caressed Mairead's soft cheek, and the child
turned her head toward the touch.  A wave of need
passed over Katie and she gently lifted her child
out of the crib.   As Katie settled them into the
rocking chair, Mairead snuffled softly, nuzzling
her head into the hollow of her mother's neck.
Katie drew a blanket from the crib around them
both.
   
"Hush," she whispered as Mairead started to rouse.  
"Sleep, my sweet."

She sat, rocking and inhaling Mairead's sweet baby
scent.  A noise from the doorway caught her attention
and she looked up to find Mulder leaning against 
the doorjamb, arms crossed, as he watched them.

"It's late," he said.  "Miss Muir put her to bed
hours ago."

"I needed to hold her," Katie said, quietly. 

Lips pursed, Mulder shook his head slowly.  "I 
don't understand you, Kate." 

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"When Samantha and I were small, our mother rarely 
spent time with us, and as far as I could tell, that 
never bothered her.  In truth, I believe she preferred 
to keep contact at a minimum.  But you...it obviously 
hurts you a great deal to miss time with Mairead.  
And yet, you haven't done anything to change that fact."

Katie gathered Mairead more closely against her.
Mulder's expression was unreadable as he watched
her from the door.  

"I'm going to bed," he finally announced.  "You
should do the same."

Later that night, as Katie lay awake, beside Mulder, 
she thought about what he'd said.  Examining her 
life as an observer might view it, she saw a woman 
whose life was spent helping the less fortunate, 
and who loved her husband and child beyond all 
reason.  So, why did the woman spend more of her 
waking hours with the poor than with her loved ones?  

Mairead had everything she could possibly need.
Miss Muir was firm, yet loving.  The child had
more toys than she could ever play with, more
dresses than she could ever wear.  The truth
of the matter was, Mairead was growing to be
a happy child and Katie's presence or absence
didn't seem to make much difference to that 
outcome.

Was she vain to think her presence at the clinic 
made a difference?  Was she selfish to crave the
satisfaction she drew from her work there?

Mulder toiled as long and hard as she did, but 
she feared that he did it without satisfaction. 
Photography was the work that brought him joy, but he
no longer had the time.

Katie woke up the next morning with a plan to spend
less time at the clinic.  She would redouble her 
attempts to hire more staff.   

She pulled on her dressing gown and climbed the stairs
to the nursery.  At the doorway she heard the happy
sounds of Mairead and Mulder at play, and she waited
quietly to enjoy their nonsense without interrupting.

"Now what is this one called?" Mulder was asking.

"May!"

"Mairead!  She has the same name as you do."

Katie smiled.  Most of Mairead's dolls were named
Mairead, except for one particularly ugly specimen
known as Edgar.

"Bad girl."

"She is?  What did she do?"

"She yelled!"

"I can't believe it.  I've never heard her make a
sound."

"She yelled, Papa."

"I'm sure she had a good reason," he said, replacing
the doll on the shelf.

"Not there!  There!"  Mairead pointed to show him the
doll's proper spot.  "Silly Papa!"

"My humble apology.  Is this one also called Mairead?"
He chose a different doll from the extensive
collection.

"She go bed."

Mulder placed the doll in the toy cradle, but Mairead
snatched it out and gave it back to him.

"No, Papa!  Shoes!"

"How silly of me," Mulder said.  He sat down on the
floor next to the cradle, squinting at the tiny
buttons on the doll's shoes.

"Give her blanky."  Mairead held out the ragged
flannel blanket that was probably her most prized
possession.   

"There she is, all snug in her bed."

"Good Papa."

Rapt, Katie barely heard the approach of Lucy, the
parlormaid.

"Begging you pardon, Mrs. Katherine, but Mrs. Mulder was
asking for you to join her for breakfast."

"Thank you, Lucy.  Please tell her I will be there
presently."  She caught Mulder's eye, but he made no
move to leave the nursery.

Katie dressed quickly to join her mother-in-law at the
dining table.  Edgar poured her coffee.  Teena
dismissed him with a nod, before she spoke.

"Good morning, Katherine.  I'm hoping you can persuade
Fox to see reason."

"Good morning, Mother Mulder.   You're looking very
well this morning."

"I very much fear it was Fox's spiteful attitude that
drove dear Cornelius away from our home," Teena said
plaintively.

"You must miss him very much.  How fortunate that you
have other dear friends."

"Fox has the most fanciful notions.  Perhaps you can
reassure him that Cornelius is only concerned for his
well-being."

"How curious that Mr. Spender would take such an
interest," Katie commented.

"Katherine, dear, you sound quite like a man when you
speak that way."

Katie tried to turn her laugh into a cough and found
herself choking on her coffee.

"Mother Mulder, Mr. Spender has been a friend of the
family for many years.  How is it that Fox only made
his acquaintance so recently?" she asked when she
recovered.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."  Teena was
growing flustered, and Katie wanted nothing more than
to end the interview.

"I was only wondering--"

"Cornelius is a busy and important person.  And Fox
was away at school, or touring with his tutor."

"I see," Katie said.  

"I wonder if you do.  It must seem odd, to one from
you background, that children would be educated away
from the home, or that gentlemen would have to
travel."

"Mother Mulder, if you like I will relay your thoughts
to Fox.  I've always found him to be fair and
intelligent, but I will apprise him of your concerns."

"After consideration, I would prefer if you did not. 
I'm sorry that I troubled you."  

Teena left the table abruptly, to Katie's relief. 
Teena was obviously offended, but she wouldn't be
carrying her complaints to Mulder, under the
circumstances.

Katie was pleased and a little surprised when Mulder
sat down beside her.

"I thought about taking breakfast with Mairead and our
many granddaughters, but I'm running out of ties," he
said.

"Isn't she a gem?  I don't think Missy's boys were as
clever at her age."

"She's growing so fast.  I need to take more
pictures."

"Oh, yes, Mulder, you should do that," Katie said. 
She and Mulder had their disagreements, but they were
one in their admiration of their marvelous daughter. 
 
Edgar poured the coffee, but Mulder's refusal of
further sustenance brought Cook herself into the
dining room.

"I'm fixing your favorite, and I'll have no argument,"
she said.

"Very well.  Thank you," Mulder agreed.

Katie shared Cook's concern.  When Mulder's mind was
dark, he drank more and ate less, and the weeks since
the fire had taken their toll.  

"Mulder, is it only the fire that's troubling you?"
she asked.

"I'll never forget what I saw.  Will you?"

"No.  But I wondered if this might have something to
do with Spender.  He's gone, but it's as if he left a
piece of himself behind."  

She saw his face harden, and she wanted to slap
herself for losing the chance of a pleasant meal with
her husband.

"That's a lovely thought, Katie."  He pushed himself
from the table.  "I'll try to be on time tonight.  I
hope you will do the same."

"But your breakfast," she protested feebly.  "Your
favorite."

"Give Cook my regrets.  And don't tell her I haven't
been able to abide it since I was ten years old." 

Katie did her best to soothe Cook's ruffled feathers
when she brought out Mulder's "favorite."   With her
own appetite gone, Katie choked down a piece of toast
and a cup of coffee before leaving for work.

"Would you like a newspaper today, Mrs. Katherine?"
Dunham inquired as he drove her to the clinic, but
Katie declined.  It seemed sure that Harris and Blanck
would be convicted and that some good would come from
the tragedy, but as Ma always said, you can't fry your
fish while it's still in the stream.

The waiting room was packed that morning.  

Coughs and wheezes filled the room as Katie passed 
through.  She waved off Shayna who approached her with
the ever-present clipboard.  

"In a minute, Shayna.  I have some phone calls to make
before the patients."

"Don't take too long," Shayna replied.  "We got a lot
of sick people today."

Katie tried to keep the calls as brief as she could.  
She renewed the advertisement in the newspaper and called
the nursing agencies again.  The Mulder name was a
powerful one, and though Katie hated to trade on it, 
she was desperate for help.

In the end, both of the agencies Katie contacted agreed
to conduct a search and send over any suitable, and
interested candidates.

The only good thing about busy days was how fast they
passed.  The stream of sick people kept all of them busy
and it was past seven o'clock when Shayna finally was
able to bolt the clinic door.  

Katie arrived home in time for dinner, but not in time
to do more than peek in on Mairead's bathtime and kiss
the child goodnight.  She rushed to wash up and dress
for dinner, hurrying downstairs to find Mulder already
at table in the dining room, a glass of whiskey in his
hand.

"It's just us, tonight.  Mother has a sick headache."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Katie said as Edgar pushed
her chair in.   "I'll look in on her after dinner."

"You're so good, Kate.  I doff my hat to you."  He took
a long swallow.

Edgar brought in their first course of turtle soup. 
Katie could barely taste it.  Mulder pushed his plate
away, untouched.

"Mulder, how much have you had to drink?" 

A flicker of anger was gone so quickly, she wasn't sure
it had been there at all.  

"Not nearly enough, I think."

"Mulder, I'm worried about you."

"Please don't trouble yourself with me," Mulder said as 
he rose from the table.  He leaned over and pressed a kiss 
to Katie's cheek.  "I'm really not hungry and have a lot 
of work to attend to.  If you'll excuse me."

Tears stung Katie's eyes as her husband left her alone
for the second time that day. 

Edgar said nothing as he cleared the full soup bowls 
away and brought one dinner plate into the room.  Katie
could barely bring herself to eat.  She abandoned the
meal and went up to the comfort of a hot bath.

Katie tossed and turned before falling into a fitful
sleep.  It felt like the middle of the night when 
Mulder slipped into bed.  The sheets rustled as she
turned to face him.  He touched her face, wiping a
stray tear from her cheek.  

"I'm sorry, Kate.  So sorry."

She didn't answer, just drew closer to him and finally
slept.  

The next days brought more sickness, fever, wracking 
coughs.  Katie and Vincent made many housecalls, climbing
endless steps to cramped apartments where sometimes
two or three people lay in one bed.  

Katie dragged herself through the days, weary beyond
anything she'd ever experienced.  Even in the early
days of her pregnancy with Mairead, she'd never felt so
exhausted.   A permanent ache had settled between her
shoulder blades.  

The only bright spot was the morning Katie arrived to
find Rebecca Waite in her office.  Rebecca had impressed
Katie years ago with her nursing skills when William
Mulder was felled by a massive stroke.  Her calm, 
efficient demeanor had comforted the whole family 
during that terrible time.

"I understand you're looking for some help," Rebecca
said as Katie took her hands.   

"You're a gift from above," Katie said.  "We need you
so much."

But even with Rebecca's help, the needs of the sick 
outstripped the clinic's ability to cope.  The hospitals 
were overwhelmed with cases where what started as a 
simple fever or malaise progressed with inexorable 
cruelty.  Pneumonia, nephritis, meningitis--many 
succumbed, and many who survived never fully recovered.  
As many of the poor were terrified of hospitals, the 
clinic was their only source of care.  

No matter how hard she tried, Katie couldn't manage to
get home in time for dinner.  Mulder no longer commented
as he found her rocking the sleeping Mairead late at
night.  He'd just watch from the doorway, shaking his 
head in worry or sadness--Katie was too tired
to figure it out.    

One night she was woken from sleep when Mulder reached
for her hand.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Sorry, love.  I didn't mean to wake you."

He tried to release her hand, but she held fast,
horrified to realize how rare it had become for him to
touch her.

"Mulder, I told you once that you could keep your
secrets," she said, bringing his hand to her lips.

"They don't concern you, Katie.  I love you."

"But you're burdened, Mulder, and that is my concern. 
You barely eat, and you're angry all the time."

He turned to her.

"My obligation to Diana Fowley should be filled soon,
perhaps this week."

"That isn't what's troubling you, is it?"

"No," he answered, simply.

"It's Spender," she said, feeling suddenly certain.

His sigh confirmed her insight.

"Don't press me," he pleaded.  "If it were only about
myself I could tell you, but it's not."

She moved closer to comfort him.

"You have no obligation to him.  You don't have to
honor a promise made under duress to a scoundrel."

They held one another as they had not done for weeks.

"I promised him nothing.  It's for my own sake that I
must keep my silence, and for the sake of everyone I
love."

"Whatever you're hiding can't be so terrible that I
couldn't help you bear it."

"You are helping me, every moment you're with me."

"All right."  She stroked his back.  

"Thank you for understanding."

"I don't understand.  I think you're making a mistake.
But I won't torment you when you're already
tormenting yourself."

She slept in his arms, and the next morning they both
ate breakfast in the nursery.  As always, Mairead
insisted on feeding herself, but most of her porridge
arrived safely in her mouth.

"Mama go bye-bye?" Mairead asked cheerfully.

"Yes, love.  Mama go bye-bye," Katie answered.

"Why does Mama go bye-bye?" Mulder prompted.

"Help people!" Mairead answered triumphantly.

He had taught that to her.  He complained about the
long hours, but he understood.

Mulder drove Katie to work, instead of Dunham.

"I'll try to be home on time," she said, as she
climbed out of the car, but she repeated it so
often that the phrase had lost its meaning.

"I might be late myself," Mulder answered.

Katie found the waiting room full, but not as
crowded as it had been over the last few weeks.

"It doesn't seem as busy as yesterday," Katie
remarked.

"Shush," Shayna warned her.  Shayna subscribed to the
belief that mentioning something positive could cause
it to disappear.

"Oh.  Then I won't tell you that Dr. Oppenheim will be 
covering our housecalls today," Katie said.

"Good.  And I won't say how nice that new girl is
working out."

Katie and the others kept a brisk pace all morning,
though it was leisurely compared to the endless grind
of the weeks gone by.  At twelve o'clock, they were
able to take a break for lunch.

"Shayna used to insist we take a lunch hour every
day," Vincent told Rebecca.  "A very civilized
custom."

"The way these two work, if I didn't remind them
they'd never stop at all," Shayna said.  "Looks like
you're the same."

"I like to keep busy," Rebecca agreed.

Rebecca was a hard worker, but she had a calm
efficiency about her that Katie appreciated.

"I'm more tired than hungry.  I'm going to lie down,"
Katie said.

"Are you feeling all right?" Vincent asked.

"You're not pregnant again, are you?" asked Shayna.

"I'm fine.  Or I would be if it wasn't so hot
in here."

"What hot?  It's not hot," Shayna said.

Katie's back ached and her head was pounding.
"I just need to take a nap."

"You need a nap," Vincent said, rising from the table.  
"But you need to take it in your own bed.   I'm going 
to drive you home, Katie."

Katie wanted to protest, but she couldn't summon the
energy.  Vincent stood waiting as she pushed away
from the table.  Wearily, she gathered her things
together and let Vincent lead her to his car.

She couldn't keep her eyes open on the drive home.
The afternoon was sunny and warm, but Katie shivered
and pulled her jacket more tightly around her.  

"Let me help you in," Vincent said as he parked
the car in front of the Mulder brownstone.  

"No need," Katie said, rousing from her restless
doze.  Before he had a chance to come around and
open her door, Katie was out of the car and on
her way up the front steps.  That little show of 
strength took far more of Katie's energy reserve
than she thought and spots danced before her 
vision as she got to the top.

She turned and waved just as the front door 
opened.  She was never sure how Edgar sensed the
return of one of the family, but he never failed
to pull the door open in time.

"Mrs. Katherine," he said.  "Is everything all
right?"

"It's fine, Edgar.  I'm just going to go up and
see Mairead."

The room seemed to spin as she stepped onto the
first stair and she couldn't feel her feet and 
hands.   The room went dark and Katie crumpled
to the floor.  Somewhere, far away, she heard
Edgar's voice calling her name.

*********************************************** 
 
"Lunch was delightful, Fox, but I thought you'd called
me because you had news."

"I do have news," he replied.

They walked down 42nd Street in the bright spring 
sunshine.  Diana's hand rested on Mulder's arm and
she glanced at him from under the brim of her hat.

"Well, then, what is it, pray tell?   Why don't
you tell me?"

"I'd rather show it to you," he replied.  In truth,
he wasn't sure how Diana would receive the information
he had for her.  "And here we are." 

"Fox, I don't understand.  Why are we at a moving
picture theater?"

"Come on, they're waiting for us."  

Mulder had been so concerned about Diana's reaction
to what he had to show her, he'd rented the whole
theater so they'd have some privacy.

"Ah, Mr. Mulder," the theater manager said, as he
ushered them through the dimly lit lobby area.  "I'll
give word to the projectionist as soon as you're 
ready."

They passed through the velvet curtains to the 
theater proper.  Mulder chose two seats on the
aisle, turned and nodded to the proprietor.  The
curtains closed behind him and in a few minutes,
the whirr of the projector was heard below the
piano introduction.

"Fox, what's going on?" Diana hissed as the 
screen lit up with the words "A Biograph Picture."

He hushed her, as the title card changed, showing
"Directed by D. W. Griffith," and finally, "Her
Heart's Desire."

The movie opened in a department store where a young
woman waited on a haughty customer.  A young stock boy
pulled an amusing face, nearly causing the girl to 
burst into laughter.  

"That's your daughter," Mulder whispered to Diana.  
"That's Grace."

"On my God," she gasped, one hand flying up to cover 
her mouth. 

They watched the young woman on the screen.  Her face
was so mobile, every nuance of emotion playing across
her features.  She wasn't beautiful, as one would 
expect an actress to be, but what her face conveyed
was somehow more than beauty.

Mulder had searched for months, hiring Moe Bocks to 
find Diana's illegitimate daughter, the product of a 
girl's indiscretion with a young composer.

Young Grace O'Connor had left her strict Christian 
home and come to New York City.  With Bocks initial 
report, Mulder had feared the girl had wandered onto 
the rough streets of the Bowery, possibly succumbing 
to a life of degradation.  

Bocks hadn't discovered how Grace had made the 
fortuitous connection with Biograph Pictures and
D.W. Griffith, but in a matter of months, the girl
had risen to featured player.  Appearing under the
name of Louise Grace, Diana's daughter was one of
Biograph's young stars.  Watching her luminous
face on the screen, Mulder had no doubt that her
career would soar.

He tried to follow the story of the young shopgirl
who attracted the attention of the store owner's 
playboy son.  Mulder's mind insisted on straying 
to Katie, picturing her in the place of the naive 
young girl and himself in the part of the 
ne'er-do-well rich boy.  

The girl rejected the playboy, who accused her of 
stealing a silver comb from the display case and 
planted the evidence in her coat pocket.  The girl 
was fired, thrown out of the store in disgrace.  

Louise was heartbreaking as she wandered the streets, 
crying and shivering.  The stockboy exonerated the 
shopgirl, unmasking the playboy as a cad.   As the 
stockboy took the swooning shopgirl in his arms, 
the placard reading "The End" filled the screen.  
Mulder turned to Diana.

"Grace is safe," he said.  "My source says she's 
hard-working and extremely well-respected.  And 
she's making quite a substantial salary--reportedly 
$100 a week."

"Oh, Fox, thank you for finding her."

"She's wonderful, isn't she?"

"I couldn't take my eyes off her.  She was absolutely
incandescent."

"My man hasn't yet contacted her directly.  His instructions
were to make any inquiries with great discretion.  I can 
have him speak to her and set up a meeting whenever you
wish."

"No!  Oh, Fox, no.  I couldn't.  She's doing so well, and 
I'd only complicate her life."

"It can be handled very carefully.  Grace is aware of
her adoption, though I understand she knows none of the
details.  She's probably wondered about you as much as
you've wondered about her."

"But, Fox...she's an actress.  I can't reveal myself 
now--think of the scandal.  It might be damaging to 
her career."

"Damaging to her career or damaging to your character,
Diana?"

"Both.  You know as well as I do, how important it is 
for a woman to maintain an impeccable reputation in the 
community.  The hint that a woman had an indiscretion 
in her past...let's just say that society can be 
unforgiving."

"I see," he said.  There was something about the look 
in her eyes that gave him pause.   For a moment, he
wondered what she might know of his own past.

"I do wish someone could give Grace some guidance.   
That's quite an income for a young girl, and I'd hate
for someone to take advantage of her.  Perhaps, you
could advise her, Fox."

"Diana, you're more than equipped to advise her."

"I can't, Fox.  I couldn't risk exposing myself."

"She doesn't have to know you're her mother, then.  
I can arrange for you to meet her casually."

"It's out of the question.  Really, it's for her
good as much as mine.  I'm sure I don't have to tell
you how awkward it would be for her.  I do want to
be involved, but it has to be from a distance.  But
you could guide her in my place."

"Diana, it's out of the question.  How it would
look for a married man to concern himself with the
finances of a young actress?"  

"Oh, Fox," Diana laughed.  "Don't be so provincial."

The lights in the theater came on, and Diana took
Mulder's arm as she rose from her seat.

"You call me provincial when I talk of decorum, yet
you allow the fear of public censure keep you from
your only child," he said.

"It's entirely different for a man.  A lady is utterly
ruined by a scandal, where a gentleman merely appears
more rakish and interesting."

Mulder shook his head.  Diana's fierce drive to locate
her daughter had come close to ruining his life.  Now
the daughter was within reach, but the mother was
satisfied with the flickering image.

He didn't understand women.  In particular, he didn't
understand mothers.  

Teena had started hounding him on behalf of "dear
Cornelius."  She no longer pressed him to welcome
Spender as adviser and friend, but she had taken to
issuing orders regarding her holdings, orders that
always conflicted with his own decisions.  Before 
Spender had insinuated himself into their life,
Teena had been content to let Mulder follow his own
judgment.  

When he coaxed his mother to tell him the truth about 
Spender, she responded with indignation.  His partner 
and mentor had been equally uncooperative, but in Traut's
obstruction Mulder found the answer.  Spender's contumely 
had been the truth.  The patriarch of the Mulder dynasty 
was a cuckold, and the heir was a bastard.  It was an 
ugly secret that would only grow uglier if exposed.

"My driver will bring you down to Broad Street," Diana
offered, as he helped her into her carriage.

"I'll walk," Mulder said.  

"Fox, it's miles," she protested, but he closed the
door and waved the driver on.

He'd been an avid walker once, walking to work and
back, walking the narrow streets of the East Side. 
Spring had arrived, and he thought that he and Katie
might take advantage of the mild weather.  Perhaps on
Sunday they could show Mairead the city beyond Central
Park.  Perhaps they could introduce her to an egg
cream or some chop suey.

He was relieved that his business with Diana was
completed.  At some point his motives had become less
altruistic, and he had hoped that she would offer up
some useful intelligence about Spender.  All she'd
given him was her advice that the reeking smoker could
be a powerful ally, and that Mulder would do well to
stifle his distaste. Spender, she said, was a lonely
old man who could be won over with a show of
cordiality.  

Uncle Dewitt had endorsed a similar strategy.  While
never acknowledging the blood between them, DT had
hinted that Fox could expect more consideration from
Spender than most.  More leniency.  More mercy.

DT had yet to resume his normal activities at Mulder &
Traut.  He'd returned from the continent a week ago,
then preceded almost immediately to Washington.  They
spoke by 'phone every evening, but as always Traut was
coy and cryptic.  

Mulder hoped desperately that he'd be able to cut back
his hours at the office, when DT came back to work. 
His shoulders sagged as he reached his destination,
and he passed through the massive doors wondering how
many hours would pass before he'd be able to leave.

"Any messages?" he asked Morris Fletcher.

"Oh, the usual.  Mr. Traut calling from the capital. 
Edgar asking you to telephone at your very earliest
convenience.  I suppose even the head of the largest
bank in North America has to step lively where his
mother is concerned."  

"Ah, but he doesn't need her permission to fire 
impudent office boys."

Fletcher's smug grin fell away.
 
"Mulder!  I been waitin' for you!"  Charlie Scully
came rocketing from across the broad corridor lobby, 
the hitch in his gait in no way impairing his speed.

"Have you now?  What can I do for you?"  

"Lemme show you."

Mulder ushered Charlie into his office, as Fletcher
seethed outside.

"Pitchers!"

Mulder had given him a Brownie camera, and the boy was
an enthusiastic novice.

"Very nice, Charlie."

"How about this one?"

"It's beautiful," Mulder said, sincerely.  His
precious daughter, flanked by her two cousins.  

"Took me three tries for 'em all to smile at the same
time," Charlie said.

Mairead, who had been photographed so many times,
peered directly at the camera.  Michael, who held her
hand, seemed to be gazing at her.  Jimmy stood
on the other side, a grudging smile over his obvious
pout.

"I'd like to have this," Mulder said.

"Gosh.  I was saving it for my ma."

"It's a photo, son.  I can print enough for everyone."
 
"Oh, yeah.  So one for you, one for Ma, and one for
Missy, OK?"

"Certainly.  And don't forget yourself, Charlie.  The
proud uncle and gifted photographer."

"Thanks, Mulder.  But I better get back to work."

"I won't keep you.  And please ask Mr. Fletcher to
come in."

Charlie beamed as he left the office.  Fletcher
entered a minute later, bearing coffee.

"Fresh and hot, sir.  I made it myself."

"Thank you.  Please get Mr. Traut on telephone."

"Very good, Mr. Mulder.  But it might take a while."

Mulder acknowledged the warning with a nod, and turned
to the reports on his desk.

He wondered what prompted Traut to call in the
afternoon; it might mean only that he had plans for
the evening.  Traut 'phoned to inquire about
conditions in New York, to share his observations
about the political and even social scene in
Washington, and to gauge Mulder's opinion on assorted
matters.  When the telephone on his desk rang, Mulder
picked up the earpiece.

"Fox, my boy.  Hope I'm not infringing on your midday
socializing."  Traut sounded cheerful; Mulder guessed
he'd indulged in a cocktail or two.

"I gather that you've enjoyed a pleasant luncheon
yourself."

"You've met the President."

"Yes, socially."

"What's your opinion?"

Mulder shifted on his chair, puzzled.

"You've heard me voice it, often enough.  He's a
decent man.  Rather stubborn on the tariff issue.   An
unfortunate prejudice against certain industries--"

"How do you think he'd measure up in a war?"

"Uncle, you know my feelings about Mexico.  If we're
to interfere at all, we should be on the side of the
rebels."

Traut laughed.

"Mexico!  I'm talking about a real war."

Fox stared at the 'phone.

"You sound like Spender," he said.

"Oh, don't be alarmed.  We have to consider every
possibility."

Mulder was glad to end the call.  There were troubles
enough in the world without imagining more.

He placed his call to home without Fletcher's help. 
Edgar's voice was urgent as he pressed Mulder to hurry
home without delay.

"Is my mother in one of her states?" he asked.

"No, sir, it's Mrs. Katherine," Edgar said.  In all
his years of service to the family, Mulder had never 
heard such worry in Edgar's voice.   "She's very ill.
I've taken the liberty of calling Dr. Wieder."

"I will be right there," Mulder said, disengaging the
call without further comment.  His hands were shaking.

Katie was sick enough to frighten Edgar, and Mulder had
been wasting time with Diana Fowley.  Nausea rose in
his throat.   

He rushed past Fletcher, who looked at Mulder as if he'd
lost his mind.  The seconds seem to pass as slowly as
they did in dreams as Mulder ran to his automobile
and thanked the heavens when the starter worked on the 
first try.

Mulder drove like a madman from Broad Street to Fifth
Avenue, narrowly missing several vehicles.  As he 
arrived at the Mulder mansion, Mulder stopped the
car, barely taking the time to pull it to the curb.  
Dunham could take care of parking it.  

"Sir!" Edgar said as Mulder pushed through the door,
nearly knocking the butler off his feet.  "Thank God,
you're home."

Mulder flew through the foyer and up the staircase,
taking the steps two at a time.  Edgar huffed and
puffed after him.

"Dr. Wieder is in with Mrs. Katherine now, sir."

"Mulder, where the hell have you been?" Skinner
asked as Mulder burst into his and Katie's suite.
"Edgar called your office hours ago."

"I got the message a little while ago," Mulder
said, embarrassed at his lie, but unwilling to 
explain further at the moment.  His hand was on 
the bedroom doorknob.

"You should wait until the doctor comes out," Skinner
said.

"The hell I will," Mulder said as he opened the door.

"Ah, Mr. Mulder," Dr. Wieder said from Katie's bedside.
He'd removed his jacket, and his sleeves were rolled up
to the elbows.  "I'll be able to speak with you in a 
moment."

Katie lay in bed, her face pale and waxy with fever.  
Even from his position by the door, Mulder could hear 
the wheeze in her breathing.  Her maid, Daisy, sat 
on the side of the bed, dabbing at Katie's face and 
neck with a damp washcloth.

Mulder nodded and left, closing the door behind him.

"I knew this would happen," he said to Skinner as he
paced the room.  "I begged her to get more help at the
clinic, but she worked herself into exhaustion.  And 
now, she's sick with God knows what."

"Stop it, Mulder.  Blaming Katie for this won't do her
or you any good."

Mulder startled as the bedroom door opened, and Dr. Wieder
came into the sitting room.  He unrolled his sleeves, 
brushing the fabric down and fastening each with cufflinks 
he pulled from his pocket.

"Let's sit down," Dr. Wieder said, indicating the 
table in the sitting room.  "Might I trouble you for 
some water."

Mulder gratefully sank onto a chair, his legs threatening 
to give out on him.  Skinner filled two glasses from a 
pitcher on the sideboard and brought them to the table.  
He set one before Wieder and the other in front of Mulder 
before moving toward the door.  

"Stay," Mulder said.  In his present state of mind, 
Mulder wasn't sure he could retain all the doctor had
to say.   Skinner took a seat at the table.

"Mrs. Mulder has pneumonia," Wieder said after taking
a long drink of water.

"Dear God," Mulder gasped. 

"I won't minimize the gravity of the situation, but
Mrs. Mulder is young and healthy.  There's no reason to
assume the worst.  Things will reach a crisis over the
next day or so.  When the fever breaks, her lungs should
start to clear and she'll recover."

"What can we do?" Mulder asked, plaintively.  "There has
to be something we can do for her."

"Bed rest, plenty of fluids.  Her fever may become quite
high--we must be aggressive with that.  Skilled nursing
will be important, of course.  Daisy is doing a fine job."

"Should she be in a hospital?" Mulder asked.  Despite
the assurance that Katie's youth would help her fight
the pneumonia, Mulder was terrified.  Half the damn 
obituaries in the newspaper cited pneumonia as 
cause of death.  How could Wieder remain so calm?

"Mrs. Mulder can be well cared for in the comfort of
her own home, and she might benefit from the familiar
surroundings.  However, I am concerned about the other
members of the household.  Pneumonia is highly 
communicable.  Your mother should consider staying 
elsewhere until the danger has passed.  And, of 
course, you must send your daughter away.  Young 
children are in particular danger."  
 
With that, Wieder took his leave.  The doctor had 
no sooner gone and Mulder felt as if his knees were 
going to give out.  If Skinner hadn't taken his arm, 
Mulder was sure he'd have fallen on his ass.  

"Come on," the big man said, pushing him into a
chair.  "You're not going to do Katie much good if
you crack your skull open."

"She has to get well," Mulder said, more to himself
than to Skinner.  "She has to."

"Katie is strong, Mulder.  She's going to fight this."

"I have to see her," Mulder said, pushing himself
from the table.  He moved on shaky legs to the bedroom.

Daisy wrung out a dripping cloth over a basin of cool
water as Mulder entered the room.  The sleeves of 
Katie's nightdress had been pushed up as far as they
could go and Daisy swabbed one bare arm and then the
other.  

"S'cold, Daisy.  Stop," Katie mumbled, her eyes closed.
Her breath came in little wheezing pants.  As he came 
closer to the bed, she opened her eyes.  "Mulder?"

"I'm here, love."  He sat on the bed, taking her hand.
It felt warm and dry.

"I'm sorry, Mulder.  So, so sorry..." Katie erupted into
a volley of coughs.  

"Shhh.  It's OK.  You need to rest."

He stroked the hair from her forehead, his hand moving
gently until she closed her eyes.   Holding tight to
the covers, her hands were bunched under her chin.  It
seemed to be a massive struggle for Katie not to 
cough.  Finally, he was quite sure she slept and he
eased himself off the bed.  With one finger over his mouth
as a signal to Daisy to remain quiet, Mulder left the
room.

He needed to talk to his mother and to give Miss Muir 
instructions to get Mairead's things together.  Leaving
Skinner in the sitting room with orders to call if 
Katie needed him, Mulder found his mother in the 
conservatory.

"Oh dear, Fox!  Pneumonia?  Poor Katherine.  I suppose
it was inevitable, though.  Working at the clinic,
with people who live in such filthy conditions--it was
a matter of time before Katherine brought something
dreadful home."

"Dr. Wieder warned it was highly communicable.  For
your safety, you'll need to leave the house."

"And you too, dear."

"I'm not leaving," Mulder said, with finality.

"But it's almost summer, Fox.  We could open the Maine
estate and have a lovely rest, while Katherine
recuperates."

"It's not open to discussion.  I want you and Mairead
out of the house, and as soon as possible."

Teena seemed at last to grasp the severity of the
situation, and her voice was low and serious when she
spoke again.

"Perhaps it would be better if we stayed in town. 
I'll send a note to Mrs. Schuyler and I'm sure she'll
offer her hospitality."

He gave her a quick hug and proceeded to the nursery. 
To his surprise, Miss Muir was preparing Mairead for
an outing to the park.

"I thought I was clear that you should limit your outings
to the garden when Mr. Skinner was not available to 
accompany you," he said sternly.

"Mr. Skinner said we were to take a footman.  I'm sorry 
if that was wrong," Miss Muir explained.

"I would prefer if you stayed at home.  And please
prepare Mairead and yourself for an extended visit."

He didn't care to discuss Katie's illness in front of
the child, and he was relieved when Miss Muir met his
eyes and nodded her understanding.  The whole
household had to be aware that the younger Mrs. Mulder
was gravely ill.

"Mama come home?" Mairead asked.

"Mama is home, sweetness.  She's sleeping," Mulder 
said, a catch in his voice.

Mairead pursed her lips, confused.  Then, very
solemnly, she gave her father the ragged bit of
flannel that accompanied her almost everywhere.

"Give her blanky," she said.

"Why don't you keep blanky for Mama, darling,"
Mulder said as he handed it to Miss Muir.  He 
lifted Mairead, kissing her soft cheek.  Separation
from his child would be as painful as having
a limb removed, but keeping her safe was vital.

"You can help Miss Muir pack some of your toys.  
You're going on a visit, sweetheart.  Won't that 
be fun?"

Mairead seemed hesitant about the prospect of a 
visit but was more than happy to carry one toy 
at a time to Miss Muir.  With his daughter occupied,
Mulder left the nursery.

Skinner stood as soon as Mulder entered the sitting
room.  The big man seemed poised to leave, 
uncomfortable at Mulder's return.  A man's voice
could be heard coming from the bedroom.

"Who is that?" Mulder asked, his voice loud in his
ears.  

"Dr. Vitigliano came by." 

"Damn it," Mulder said, crossing to the bedroom
door.  

"Mulder," Skinner said, sharply.  "He cares about
Katie.  And he's her friend."

Mulder shot him a fierce look before pushing the
bedroom door open.   Daisy carried a basin out of
the bathroom, the water sloshing dangerously as she
startled at the intrusion.

Vincent Vitigliano, who could have foreseen this
disaster and prevented it, sat in a chair next to the
bed.  Katie's eyes were closed and her face was
flushed with fever.

"I didn't call you," Mulder said.

"I had to see how she was."

"And now you've seen."

Vitigliano stood.

"She's awake," he said, very quietly.

"Then we will talk outside," Mulder answered, barely
mouthing the words.

"Mulder?"  Katie's voice was a low whisper.  "I want
him to be my doctor."

He wanted to remind her that Vincent was the one who
had made her sick, but he answered gently.

"Dr. Wieder is taking care of you."

"He's excellent, Katie," Vitigliano said.

"I want Vincent."  

"I know Dr. Wieder.  I'm sure he would allow me to
participate in your wife's care," Vitigliano offered.

Dr. Wieder was the chosen physician of those who could
have any doctor they pleased.  Vitigliano took care of
people who had nowhere else to turn.

"That would be acceptable," Mulder said, grudgingly.

Vitigliano retreated, and Mulder followed him out the
door.

"I'm tolerating you for her sake," he said.

"Likewise."

"Daisy will show you out."

They would have parted on that note, Mulder full of
blame and resentment for the man who usurped his
wife's time and finally her health, except for
Vitigliano's parting comment.

"Dr. Wieder is a fine man, but I've attended hundreds
of cases of like this, and I doubt if he's seen more
than a dozen in people under sixty."

Not half an hour later Mulder received a telephone
call from Dr. Wieder.

"I've had the opportunity to consult with Dr.
Vitigliano," he began.

"I apologize if he was presumptuous.  Unfortunately my
wife holds him in high regard."

"So do I," Wieder said.

"Oh.  Good."

"Based on his recommendations, I'm dispatching an
elixir to relieve the cough and a powder that will
quell the fever and make her more comfortable."

"If you think so."

"Dr. Vitigliano also apprised me that, by his
observations, influenza is most communicable in the
prodromal phase."

Mulder stared at the telephone, as if it might be
responsible for what sounded like gibberish.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand."

"I've reconsidered my recommendation regarding your
mother and daughter.  There's little to be gained by
sending them away," Wieder said.  

Mulder felt a helpless anger.  He relied on Dr.
Wieder's expertise, and hearing the man revise his
earlier advice was extremely upsetting.

"Anything else?" he asked, icily.

"I'll see you this evening."

Mulder returned to Katie's bedside.  She had fallen
into a fitful slumber so he silently gestured for
Daisy to take a break.  He sat in the easy chair
as shadows overtook the room and afternoon crept
along.  

Katie appeared dwarfed in the big bed.  Sometimes he
forgot how very small she was.  She always seemed so
much bigger than her size.  It frightened him to
see her like this--his Katie was strong, invulnerable.

Daisy returned carrying a paper sack.  "Dr. Wieder
sent this along for Mrs. Katherine," she whispered.

"Let her sleep," he replied, his voice matching her
tone.  "As long as she's resting, the medicine can
wait."

Mulder slipped through the door, finding Skinner
waiting for him in the sitting room.

"Your mother is almost ready to leave.  Stacy...I
mean Miss Muir, has Mairead packed and ready."

Both doctors felt, now, that it was unnecessary for
his mother and Mairead to leave, but Mulder hadn't
halted their packing.  

"They won't be far," he said, to himself as much as
Skinner.

"It won't be for long," Skinner added.

Mulder shuddered, thinking of the "crisis" that Dr.
Wieder had predicted.  In a few days Katie's fever
would peak, and either she would begin to recover 
or...

"Katie's stronger than steel, Mulder.  She'll come
through," Skinner said, as if he could read the terror
in Mulder's thoughts.

A diffident knock on the door announced the presence
of Gretchen, Teena's maid, who dipped her head
respectfully before she spoke.
 
"Your mama wants you should see her before she go."

Mulder marveled at the quantity of luggage assembled
in the entrance hall.  Two large trunks and assorted
valises for Mother.  A trunk and several valises for
Mairead and her nursemaid.  Mother was nowhere in
sight, but Miss Muir sat on the antique Chinese bench 
as Mairead played among the luggage.  

"Look, Papa!"  She crawled up onto on of the valises,
stood, then jumped to the floor.

"Magnificent!" Mulder exclaimed.

"Now you do!"

"I think I would rather have a big hug.  Is there
anyone who could give me a great, big hug?"

"Me!"

He swung her up into his arms, and Mairead hugged his
neck and pressed a noisy, wet kiss against his cheek.

He wanted to hold her forever, but was determined to
keep their parting light and cheerful.  He set her
down on the marble floor.

"Look, Papa!"  

Mulder watched as she stomped away, then turned around
and stomped back.

"How wonderful," Mulder said, but Mairead narrowed her
eyes in disapproval and repeated her routine, smashing
her feet against the floor as if she would break it.

"She's marching," Miss Muir explained in a helpful
whisper.

"Mairead, you're marching!  That is the finest
marching I have ever witnessed."

"Now you do!"

Thus it was that Mulder and his daughter were marching
noisily around the hall, singing "Yankee Doodle," when
the doorbell chimed. 

"Mika come?" Mairead asked hopefully.  Missy's eldest
had grown into a swaggering five-year-old, and Mairead
idolized him.

"More likely it's Mr. Dunham, come to take you for a
ride," Mulder answered.  Also likely was that Edgar
would chide him for using the front entrance.

But it was neither.  

"Mr. Cornelius Spender," Edgar announced.

"Teapot!" Mairead exclaimed happily, running to greet
the malodorous visitor.

"Why, who is this big girl?  And where is Mairead?" 
Spender dropped to one knee and stretched out his
arms, and Mairead would surely have greeted him with a
hug and a kiss if Mulder hadn't scooped her from the
floor.

"Put out that cigarette," Mulder commanded.

"How thoughtless of me."  Spender got to his feet and
handed the cigarette to Edgar, before approaching
Mulder with his hand extended.  "I was horrified to
learn of your wife's illness, Fox.  I have every
confidence that she'll soon be on the mend."

Mulder avoided the handshake, both arms holding his
child.

"Your kind sentiments are noted," Mulder said.  "I'm
sure you understand why we aren't receiving visitors
today."

"Your mother explained everything.  I will keep
Mairead and her grandmama safe and entertained until
they can return home," Spender said.  

"You're very much mistaken about that," Mulder said.

"Cornelius, dear," Teena called, descending the
curving stairway.  "You're my knight in shining
armor."

"At your service," Spender answered as he smiled
and made a little mock bow.

"I don't understand, Mother.  You planned to stay 
with the Schuylers," Mulder said.

"But Cornelius reminded me of the disruption a baby
brings to a household.  We both thought it better 
that we take a suite at the Plaza," Teena said.

"My driver will attend to the luggage," Spender said.

"Edgar will see that he has some assistance," Teena
said, nodding at the butler.

Mulder felt rage boil in his veins, but he held it 
in check.

"Miss Muir, please take Mairead up to the nursery. 
There's been a change in plans."  The nursemaid
snatched the child as if she'd only been waiting for
his word.  Mairead's cries sailed down the stairs 
as Miss Muir carried her away.

"I'm disappointed, Fox, that you would be so selfish,"
Spender said.  

"Mother, Dr. Wieder changed his mind about the need
for you and the baby to leave.  He decided that it
served no purpose," Mulder explained urgently.

"Then he's quite as bizarre and capricious as you are
yourself!" Teena sputtered.

"You can ask him about it when he calls tonight,"
Mulder said.

"I won't be here.  Let us go, Cornelius."  She nodded
at the trunks and valises.  "Edgar?"

"Yes, madame."  Edgar bowed his head.

"Fox, I beg you to reconsider," Spender said, as Teena
took his arm and led him out the door.

Mairead was sulky and indignant when Mulder joined her
and Miss Muir in the nursery.

"Who will march with me?  Will you march, Mairead?"

Mairead shook her head stubbornly.

"Then I will march by myself."  Miss Muir fought off
the giggles as Mulder marched about the room, beating
on a toy drum, but when he broke into a falsetto
version of Yankee Doodle, she burst into laughter.

Even Mairead was won over.  

"My drum!" she insisted, so Mulder gave her the drum
and she marched behind him.

After an hour of play, Mairead was ready for her
supper.  Mulder left the nursery marveling at her
energy, and resolved to increase Miss Muir's salary.

His heart lightened when he found Katie sitting up in
bed, propped up by a mountain of pillows.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Much better," she said, but a paroxysm of coughing
overcame her.  

Mulder held out a glass of water, but she waved him
off, tears in her eyes and her face tight with pain.

"Better if I whisper," she rasped, when the bout
ended.  "Talking brings it on."

"Dr. Wieder sent you an elixir," he offered.

"Had some," she said in a hiss.  "And the powder. 
Bitter."  She made a face.

"But it's done you a world of good."

He took a few minutes to telephone his office, where
he made what arrangements he could for his indefinite
absence.  He left a message for DT at his hotel in
Washington, urging his partner to return to New York.

The last phone call was the hardest.  Mulder telephoned
Maggie Scully with the news that Katie was sick.  
After calling on half a dozen saints for protection, 
Mrs. Scully said she would run to catch the streetcar.  
Mulder said he would send Dunham to pick her up, but Mrs. 
Scully wouldn't have it.  

"Won't be any help to Katie if that speeding madman drives 
me into the side of an ice wagon.  I'll take the streetcar."

Katie seemed comforted to see her mother.  Maggie spoke
soothingly and straightened out the bedcovers.  Mulder 
looked on in awe at the sight of Mrs. Scully brushing 
Katie's hair until it looked like a halo on the pillow
beneath her head.  In his entire childhood, Mulder 
couldn't remember his mother tending to him when he was
ill.  

When Mrs. Scully went to the nursery to spend some
time with Mairead, Mulder resumed his place at 
Katie's side.
 
He read to her, he sponged the perspiration from her 
face and arms, and when Daisy brought up Cook's special
baked custard, he fed it to her, coaxing spoon after
spoon past her cracked lips.

As the evening wore on, Katie's temperature climbed.
By the time Daisy showed Dr. Wieder into the room for
his evening check, Katie's eyes were hazy and unfocused.  

"Run a cold bath," Wieder told Mulder, who shuddered at
the thought.  Maggie Scully frowned and caught Mulder's
eye as he went into the bathroom to draw the water.

"Make it warm," she whispered when he passed her.  

As he drew the bath, holding his hand under the stream 
of water to test its temperature, he heard Maggie Scully
talking to Dr. Wieder in the bedroom.   The bathtub filled,
Mulder turned off the taps and emerged from the bathroom.

"Me daughter is a lucky girl to have such a fine doctor
to look after her."

"Why thank you," Wieder said.  "I shall do my best for her."

"The bath's ready," Mulder said.  He pulled the covers from
Katie and scooped her warm, limp body in his arms.  Wieder
made a move toward the bathroom, but Mrs. Scully clucked 
her tongue and told him that she'd be able to help Mulder.

"Very well," Wieder said.  "If you don't mind, I have a few
'phone calls to make."

"Please feel free to use the 'phone in the sitting room,"
Mulder said.   "Daisy, make up the bed with fresh sheets."

Once Mulder had Katie in the bathroom, Maggie closed the
door.

"Doctors think they know everythin'," she whispered 
conspiratorially.  "But I raised four children and a 
warm bath works just as good as a cold one.  We'll add 
some cool water a little at a time so we don't shock the 
poor dear."

Mulder steadied Katie while her mother pulled the nightdress
from her body.  Her skin felt hot and dry and Mulder knew
he was the only thing keeping Katie from dropping to the
floor.  

He carried her to the tub, lowering her body into the warm
water.   Katie moaned and thrashed weakly, splashing Mulder's
shirt.

"It's all right, love," he murmured.  "We're going to cool 
you down a little."  

Mrs. Scully filled a pitcher with cool water, gradually 
adding it to the bathwater.  Katie began to tremble, the 
surface of the water moving against the sides of the tub.  

Mulder was pleased to note that Maggie Scully did, 
indeed, know something that Dr. Wieder did not.  The 
warm bath did what she said it would and Katie began 
to come around as her temperature dropped.  

They dried her off and tucked her into the clean 
bedding.  To his satisfaction, Katie dropped 
into a restful sleep.

Mulder spent the night on the chaise in her room, having 
had Edgar settle Maggie in a room for the night.

Katie slept for hours before waking in a fit of coughing 
some time after midnight, and complaining of aches so bad 
she couldn't rest.  When he felt her head, Mulder realized 
the fever had gone back up.   He gave her another dose of 
Wieder's potions, and she slept comfortably until morning.

The next day brought more of the same.  The medicines 
helped, and Mulder was mildly cautious.  Katie slept a 
great deal, but was able to swallow some of Cook's excellent 
soup when Mulder spooned it into her.  

He encouraged Maggie Scully to go back to the boarding 
house.  She had responsibilities to attend to, boarders 
that expected meals and clean sheets and he was more than 
capable of seeing to Katie's needs for the night with a 
house staff to help him.  

Maggie left in time to cook dinner for her boarders, 
promising to come back after breakfast the next morning.  
Mulder offered Dunham's assistance, but, again, Mrs. 
Scully chose to make her own way.  

When he looked back on it later, Mulder would marvel at 
his overconfidence.  Skinner always said Mulder's life 
had been too easy, that only people who'd fought their 
way up understood that catastrophe was always lurking 
out of sight. 

But that night Katie's fever began to rise and nothing,
not Dr. Wieder's powder, not cool baths, could bring it 
down.  The crisis was on them, and Mulder was shocked by
its ferocity.

She burned with fever, shivered with such violence that 
Mulder could barely hold her in his arms.  Her teeth
chattered until he thought for sure they would break.  
Mulder could hear the rattle in Katie's chest as she 
struggled to breathe.  Little, half-hearted attempts at 
coughs were all her weakened body could manage.

"So cold," Katie whispered.  "I'm so cold, Mathew."

"Then we'll have to get you warm," he said, drawing the
comforter around her.  It was hard for Katie to breathe
when she lay flat, so Mulder had climbed behind her, 
holding her against his chest.  The heat from her body 
burned through her nightdress and his shirt, reminding 
him of times he sat too near a fire.

"Any word from Dr. Wieder?" he asked Daisy.  Skinner had 
been trying to reach Dr. Wieder for an hour.  Daisy shook 
her head.  "Ask Mr. Skinner to come in here."

In a moment, Skinner opened the door.  "How is she?" 

"Where is Dr. Wieder?" Mulder asked, unable to contain his
impatience. 

"He's performing emergency surgery at the hospital," 
Skinner answered.  "He sent word that we should call Dr.
Vitigliano."

"No," Mulder said, his arms tightening around Katie.  
After a moment he looked up at Skinner.  "Yes.  All 
right.  Call Vitigliano.  And...you'd better call Mrs. 
Scully, too."

Skinner left to make his telephone calls.  Daisy went 
down to the laundry room to fetch clean sheets leaving 
Mulder and Katie alone.

With every breath she took, Mulder felt the rattle in 
Katie's chest as it vibrated against his own.  Her 
head rested on his shoulder. 

"Mathew...oh Mathew...I'm so sorry," she whispered.  

"Why are you sorry, love?  You've done nothing to be 
sorry for."

"I...lost...faith."  She drew a raspy breath, a cough 
punctuating the end.  "I didn't believe...you would 
come back.  Forgive...forgive me."

"Shhh.  Don't try to talk," he said, tears in his eyes 
as he remembered when he'd thought he had lost her forever.  
He'd been a fool.  The panic-stricken boy of years ago 
couldn't possibly comprehend real loss.  

Vitigliano arrived within minutes of Skinner's call.  A 
stack of linens in her arms, Daisy led the doctor into 
the room.  

Dr. Vitigliano opened his satchel and removed his stethoscope.  
A frown creased his face as he listened to Katie's chest.

"You're doing the right thing by keeping her upright.  She 
has fluid in her lungs."   Vincent produced a thermometer 
and proceeded to shake the mercury down.  "Katie, I need 
you to open your mouth for me."

"She's so weak," Mulder said.  "We haven't been able to get
the fever down."

After a few minutes, Vincent removed the thermometer and 
held it up.  "One hundred and four," he said.  "We have 
to get that down."

"We gave her some of the powder an hour ago, but it hasn't 
worked."

"We'll have to try something else.  If her fever breaks, 
she'll have more strength to cough and clear some of the 
infection from her lungs. Daisy," Vitigliano said.  
"Bring a basin of cool water and some towels."

They propped Katie up with pillows, pulling the covers off 
the bed.  They swathed her in towels that had been rung out 
in cold water, soaking her nightgown.  She shivered and 
moaned, the towels becoming warm far too soon after resting 
on her skin.  

The room was quiet, the only sounds the rasp of Katie's 
breathing and the drip of water as Daisy wrung out the
wet towels.  The knock at the door seemed unnaturally loud.

Maggie Scully stood in the doorway, clutching a 
handkerchief in her hand.  "My poor lamb," she said as 
she crossed the room to Katie's side.   "Katie, darlin', 
it's Mama.  Please, love, open your eyes."

Katie blinked, her eyes sunken.  "Too bright. 
Hurts," she whispered.

Mulder turned the lamp down, casting shadows around the 
room.

"I asked Father McCue to come," Maggie said.   

"Why?" Mulder asked, his voice rising in panic.  "Why 
would you do that?"

She looked at her daughter and then back at him.  "I won't
let her immortal soul be in danger, Fox.  Now, calm down."

If he lived to be a hundred, Mulder would never understand
mothers.  They needed to fight for Katie's life, not accept
her death.  His Katie would leave him only if she was torn
from his broken, bloody fingers.  He paced the room, running
a shaking hand through his hair.  His eyes never left 
Katie's pale face.
 
Father McCue came dressed in priestly garb, carrying a 
small black case adorned with a gold cross.  He glanced 
at Mulder, smiling sadly in recognition.

"Ah, Mr. Mulder, the young man who listened to my sermon 
three times one Sunday.  God bless you, my son."

Mulder wanted to take McCue by that damn collar and 
frogmarch him out the door, but Katie was looking at 
the priest with silent expectation.  

McCue opened the case he'd carried in, removing the 
tools of his trade and setting them out on the small 
table by the bed.  "Might I trouble you for a chair?" 
he asked Daisy, who immediately complied, carrying over 
the small, carved chair from Katie's vanity table. 

"Katherine, would you like to confess your sins?" he asked
leaning close to the bed.  "No one will hear but me."

"What sins could she have?" Mulder cried.  "What has 
she ever done but take care of others?"

"Quiet, Fox," Maggie Scully said.  "No one is without
blame except for our Lord, Jesus Christ."

McCue bent over the bed, his ear inches from Katie's dry, 
cracked, lips.   She was unable to do more than mumble a 
few words.  The priest nodded, laying a gentle hand on 
her forehead.

"I absolve you from your sins, in the name of the Father, 
and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  And now, we will
pray as our Lord instructed us...Our Father, who art in 
Heaven..."

Maggie Scully spoke the words along with the priest,
as did Daisy and Dr. Vitigliano.  Katie's lips moved,
though no sound escaped.  Mulder could do nothing but
stand, his hands frozen into fists at his side.

"And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those
who trespass against us...."

When he had finished, McCue opened a tiny silver case
and removed a paper-like wafer.  Katie's eyes never
left the priest.  She opened her mouth, managing only
a tiny fragment of the host.  McCue intoned more 
prayers, and then after anointing Katie's forehead
with Holy Oil, began to pack up the items like a 
workman who'd finished his day's work.

Mulder had long considered himself a coward, but the
terror he was feeling now dwarfed every fear he had
known before.  Katie was dying, and her mother and her
priest were content to let it happen.

"What are you doing?" he demanded of Father McCue.

"There is nothing more for me to do here, my son.  
The Lord has opened His arms to Katherine and He 
will gather her to Him."

"The hell he will," Mulder shouted.  "You're a priest!  
I let you in my house, now save her!"

He was aware of Maggie's disapproval and Vitigliano's
pity, aware too that his anger was irrational.

"Fox, there's no call for that kind of talk.  You're
upset, and I understand that better than anyone, but
you have to stop this," Maggie said. 

"You've given up on her!" Mulder shouted.  "You can
pray until you turn blue, but that's what it amounts
to."

"My son, we haven't given up on Katherine and neither
has God.  But you have to understand that we're only
on this mortal plain for the blink of an eye.  Our
real life begins at Our Father's side in Heaven."

Eyes stony, Mulder stalked off, forcing himself 
to keep his hands at his side, lest he punch the old
man in the face.  He was vaguely aware that Daisy was
showing Father McCue out of the room, Maggie Scully
following behind him.

"You're acting like a spoiled child," Vincent said.  
"Katie needs her husband to be strong.  Now, go to her."

Vitigliano gathered the basin and wet towels and went 
into the bathroom.  Grudgingly, Mulder felt gratitude
at the doctor's restraint. 

"Mathew. . ."

With Katie's weak whisper, Mulder's anger receded,
leaving only fear and sorrow.

"I'm here, love," he said.  The chair was not close
enough; he sat on the bed and gathered her in his
arms.

"Don't leave me."  She forced the words out, one 
by one.

"Don't you leave me either."

Katie coughed weakly, making barely a sound.  He
pulled her closer, adjusting her to a more upright
position.  She patted his knee, then his arm, 
then his chest.

"Mathew. . . so thin."

"I love you," he answered.

Her head pressed against his ribs as she turned it
right, then left.

"What a grand room," she sighed.  

He kissed her, first briefly on the lips, then her
forehead.

"Are we. . . ."  Again she broke into her feeble
cough, shaking with the effort.  "In Venice?"

"We're married," he told her.  "Forever."  

Vitigliano began to pat a damp towel against Katie's
arm, but Mulder took it from him.  Mulder heard
footsteps and then the door open and close
as Vincent left the room.

"Feels nice," Katie said.

Beads of sweat stood out on her face and shoulders,
and Mulder wiped them away.

"Venice. . . so hot."

"Yes, love.  Hot and humid."

"We're married?  Truly?"

"Truly, truly."  He swabbed her arms.  She didn't
resist the cool cloth, but rested languidly against
his chest.  If she slipped away now, he would know
that the end had come peacefully.  He could tell 
that to his daughter, one day, that her mother had 
left this world gently.

"Married.  And Shayna called you a shnorer."  She
laughed, but a fit of coughing overwhelmed her.
"Hurts," she gasped.

"Here, love.  Medicine."  He stretched to take the
bottle and a spoon from the nightstand.

Still coughing, she managed to swallow a dose, and
then some water.  At last the coughing stopped and 
she sank back against his chest, exhausted.

"Don't cry," she whispered, stroking his wet cheek. 
"Just a cough."

"Don't leave me." 

"Never.  Just need to rest."
 
She dropped into sleep, and Mulder gave up fighting
his tears.  Katie slumbered against him, her breath
thick in her throat.  He stroked her damp locks and
toweled the perspiration from her brow and neck,
indifferent to his own wet face.   

A heavy calm descended on Mulder.  The agony of 
losing his wife would be infinitely greater than 
the agony of death.  And he would die, one day.  
Why couldn't it be now?   

But he had a child to raise.  He would have to 
wait to join Katie.  

Katie stirred, her head pressing painfully against
his rib.  She snored, and not softly.  Mulder 
cherished the pain and the sound.  He knew he 
mustn't sleep, that he had to savor what was left 
to him for as long as he could.

He awoke with a start, terrified that he'd fallen
asleep.  But Katie was stirring.  Thank God.

"Ugh," she said.

It was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard.

"Like an oven," she said, pushing against the
blankets with surprising strength.

He touched her forehead, soaked again with
perspiration.  

"Here, love."  He patted the wet cloth against her
face, then her neck.

"I'm so hot."

Mulder settled her against the pillows as he got out
of bed.  He removed the blankets, then eased the
saturated nightgown over her head.

"How's this?" he asked as he pressed the cool towel
against her chest.

"Good.  Mulder, you're crying."

He wanted to answer with something jaunty, but the
words were out before he could stop them.

"I was so afraid."

"Poor Mulder."

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"I feel. . . terrible," she answered.  "Too tired to
move.  My chest hurts.  So hot--I can't stand it."

He smiled.  Relief flooded through him as he realized
Katie had survived the crisis.

The next days passed very happily for Mulder.  Katie
was utterly miserable, complaining of pain, heat,
thirst, fatigue and finally boredom.  

"Mulder, I want to see her," Katie said as she reclined
on the sofa in the sitting room.  After a week in bed, 
she'd begged for a change of scenery, and this was the 
best Mulder could offer.  

"She'll tire you, love," he said.  

"No she won't.  I haven't seen my baby in so long.
Please, Mulder?  I promise not to do anything more 
than lie here and watch her play."

Mulder looked at her as she smiled encouragingly
from the couch.  She was still pale, still prone to
coughing jags as her body rid itself of the last of
the infection in her lungs.  

"Very well," he said, with a laugh.  "But only for
a little while.  One yawn from you and it's back to
the nursery with her."

He missed Mairead, too, if the truth be told.  His
visits with her had been all too short over the last
week and Mairead was often asleep when he stopped in
the nursery in the evening.

Miss Muir reported that the baby missed them as well. 
She turned down her favorite breakfast because Mama
wasn't there to watch her eat it.

In the nursery, he found Miss Muir mending one of
Mairead's petticoats.  She put one finger to her
lips as he entered the room, nodding at the crib
where his daughter slumbered.

"Would you bring Mairead to the sitting room when
she wakes?" he whispered.

"Mrs. Katherine is feeling well?" Miss Muir's 
pleasure was not hidden by her soft tone.  At 
his nod, she smiled.  "Mairead should be awake
soon.  I'll bring her right in."

Miss Muir and Mairead arrived within the hour,
much to Katie's joy.  Mairead's face was flushed 
pink from her nap, her blanky clutched in her
fist.  Sleep seemed to still have a hold on the 
child, as she rubbed her eyes.

"Mama all better?" she asked as she crossed to the
couch.  She patted Katie's arm, leaning against
the sofa.  "Mama play?"  

"Mama still needs to rest, sweetness," Mulder
said, crouching down by the child.  "You know,
I think we have a basket of toys by the fireplace."

Mairead brightened at that, running to dig into
the basket.  She brought a small doll over to show
Katie and then a book.  "Mama read to May? Please?"

Katie opened the book, settling Mairead next to 
her on the sofa.  

"The Tale of Peter Rabbit," Katie began.  "Once
upon a time, there were four little rabbits, and
their names were Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail and..."

"Peter!" Mairead shouted.  

Katie continued with the story, to Mairead's 
delight.  Mulder enjoyed watching his two loves
together, but he became alarmed when Katie
seemed to struggle for breath.  Still, he held
back until she was consumed by a coughing fit.

"Darling," Mulder said, "We have to let Mama
rest her voice.  Papa can finish Peter Rabbit for
you."

"No, no, no! Mama!  Only Mama read,"  Mairead's
lower lip was trembling and tears glistened in
her eyes.  

"It's fine, Mulder," Katie said.  

"You're getting tired," he said, scooping Mairead
up.  She wriggled in his arms, fussing and crying,
her little hands pushing against Mulder's chest.  
He rubbed her back, murmuring to her as he tried to
calm her.  She stopped struggling finally, laying
her head on his shoulder.  

Mulder's hand ceased its movement on Mairead's
back and he frowned.  He touched the baby's soft,
pink cheek, panic rising in his gut.

"Mulder?" 

"Oh my God," he said, softly.  "She's burning up."
 
***********************************
 
"Hush little baby, don't say a word.  Mama's gonna
buy you a mockingbird," Katie sang, her voice hoarse
from overuse.  "And if that mockingbird don't sing,
Papa's gonna buy you a diamond ring."

Mairead fussed in Katie's arms, unsoothed by the 
movement of the rocking chair.  The child's skin was 
hot through the muslin of her nightdress and she
pulled at her hair with restless hands.  Vincent had
prescribed a fever reducer, but Mairead's temperature
remained high.

Katie hummed the rest of the song, her throat too 
tender to keep singing.  Tightening her arms around
her child, Katie's eyes filled with tears.  So many
nights she had come home late from the clinic and 
lifted a sleeping Mairead from her crib.  How
selfish she had been, thinking only of her need and
not Mairead's safety.  

Guilt coursed through her, like blood through her
veins.  This was all her fault.  She brought this
thing home with her from the clinic, a gift from
the impoverished carried into the luxurious home
of the wealthy.  

Mulder stood by the window, watching them and looking 
more thin and tired than Katie ever remembered.  
His eyes burned with something that Katie couldn't
fathom, much as he had those nights she'd crept into
the nursery and picked up her sleeping child.  

In the days since Mairead fell sick, Katie and Miss 
Muir had managed to rest for short periods of time.
Katie was out of her own sickbed for only a few 
days and tired easily.  But Mulder wouldn't allow
himself to leave the nursery.  If he napped at all,
it was in a chair by Mairead's crib.  

Katie knew he was frightened, perhaps even more
terrified than he'd been during her own illness.  
Mairead was so small and helpless and her condition
seemed to worsen with each hour.

As the days wore on, Vincent Vitigliano came to the
house many times.  He brought medicines but nothing 
seemed to help.  Vincent's frustration was palpable, 
but it paled in comparison to Mulder's.

Fox Mulder had grown up in a world where he every 
material wish was granted.  It always surprised Katie
that Mulder didn't seem to care about the things his
wealth provided.  The intangible had been much harder
to acquire for him--the love of his mother, the 
approval of his father.  It was the insubstantial that
Mulder ached for and now the thing he wanted most
desperately--his child's vitality--was slipping away 
from him.

Each day, Mairead's cough became more uncontrollable,
her breathing more labored.  The crackling sound in
her chest terrified Katie.   As Mulder held a 
blue-lipped Mairead, his eyes wide with fear, Katie 
had telephoned Vincent in panic.

Though it felt like ages, it was only a short while
before Vincent arrived in the nursery, along with 
several boxes.  Miss Muir hurried to help him unpack
the equipment he'd brought.

As Mairead lay in her arms, Katie held her own
breath as she watched her child struggle to draw air
into her lungs.  Mairead cried, a frightening whistle
the only sound.  No tears rolled down her cheeks as
if the fever burned them off before they had a chance
to pour forth.  

Arms stretched over his head, Vincent fought
to assemble the portable oxygen tent he'd gotten from
the hospital.   He hung the framework over Mairead's 
crib while Miss Muir stood by, handing him items as
he asked for them.  

"Do something for her, damn it," Mulder cried, his 
eyes wide in terror.  As frightened as Katie was, 
Mulder seemed even more panicked.  

"That's what I'm trying to do," Vincent said from 
between gritted teeth.  He draped the canopy over 
the metal framework, attached the tubing to the 
oxygen canister and turned it on.  "All right, 
let's get her in."

Katie lowered Mairead into her crib, propping her with 
pillows.  The child looked confused when the canopy was
lowered over her, but was too weak to do more than 
look at her mother through the transparent window.   

The four adults hovered around the crib, listening to 
the little grunts the baby made as she inhaled.  Katie
gripped the railing as if it was the only thing keeping
her upright, her knuckles bleached white.  Finally, she
relaxed when Mairead's breathing seemed to ease,
and the child fell into an exhausted sleep.  

"You should rest, Katie," Vincent said at her elbow. 
"We don't want you to relapse."

"I'm fine," she answered.  Mairead's color improved,
her lips a little less blue as the oxygen did its job.

She was aware of Vincent's concern for her health.  
She hadn't been out of bed for more than a few hours 
when Mulder had discovered the baby's fever.  Katie 
had been adamant that she would be at her child's side. 

Katie had seen how quickly sick children declined and 
how quickly the lucky ones recovered, but the speed with 
which the pneumonia had progressed shocked her.  For all 
his panic, she wasn't sure that Mulder understood how 
dangerous the illness was in someone as young as their
daughter.

"I'll stay with her.  You two can get a bite to eat,
at least," Vincent said.

"That was our mistake all along," Mulder said, his
voice so low and mumbled that Katie could barely
understand the words.

"Pardon me?" Vincent asked.

"Putting our needs above hers."

Katie knew he was right.  She couldn't meet his eyes. 

"Perhaps you could ask the staff to bring them
something," Vincent asked Miss Muir.

"Yes, sir," she answered, and Katie realized she was
crying.  

Edgar's quiet arrival followed immediately on Miss
Muir's exit.  He looked to the crib, then to each of
the adults, but he addressed Mulder.

"Mr. Cornelius Spender asks to see Miss Mairead," the
butler said quietly.

"No," Mulder answered.

"He instructs me to say that he implores you, for the
love of God," Edgar reported.

"You may tell him that you have done so."

"Very good, sir."

Teena Mulder had come back home when Mairead became ill,
but Katie wasn't sure it had been her mother-in-law's
choice.  Cornelius Spender hovered downstairs, barely
restrained by Edgar and Skinner from climbing the stairs.
Katie had no energy to reassure Teena, who dithered over 
the possible danger of holding her ailing grandchild.  
Katie was relieved when Teena stopped coming to the nursery.  

Katie would have welcoming her own mother's help, but
Maggie Scully was sick herself.  Katie prayed that 
Maggie's enormous strength would allow her to get well.

Miss Muir returned bearing a silver tray, which she
set on the nursery table.

"Cook sent this as well.  A parcel of herbs to restore
her strength," she said. holding up a small cheesecloth 
bouquet garni.

"It couldn't hurt," Vincent said.  

Miss Muir reached to hang it from the crib finial
but in an instant Mulder was upon her.

"Get it out of here!" he commanded. 

"She was only trying to help,"  Miss Muir offered
timidly.  "She loves Mairead.  We all do."  She held
the sack ahead of her as she hurried to the door.  

"That stupid old woman hasn't been right once yet,"
Mulder said, a catch in his voice.  He turned to
Katie.  "She served foods to give you an easy labor."

This time she met his eyes.  She had wondered if he
understood the gravity of Mairead's condition, but now
she knew.  She went to him, or he to her, and they
embraced.  She pressed her face against his chest and
he held her close.  She tightened her face against the
tears.

"Our baby," Mulder whispered.

"I--I did this to her," Katie said.

"I let you do it," he answered.

She clung to him until she felt him stiffen and pull
away.

"Go get some sleep," he said.  "She's resting now and
you should too."

"Will you eat, then?" she asked.

"Yes. love.  I'll eat if you'll sleep."

Mairead looked small and distant, through the oxygen
tent, but also relaxed.  Only the outline of her
ribcage, rising sharply with each breath, gave
testament to her struggle.

"We need our strength," Katie reminded him, but her
heart ached as she left the room.

She couldn't remember when she'd bathed last, so she
set the taps running before calling Daisy, her maid.

"You must wake me in an hour," she instructed her.

"But you've barely slept in days, m'am," Daisy
protested.

"I won't be able to sleep at all if you don't 
promise me."

"Yes, m'am.  And Mrs. Katherine, Mr. Spender says 
he begs a moment of your time."

Katie was about to respond with an emphatic refusal,
then decided on a different course.

"Very well."

Cornelius Skinner did not belong in this house.  If 
he didn't have the decency to remove himself, she 
would have him removed.

She found him in the drawing room, with both
footmen standing by the door like sentries.  

"I'm in your debt," Spender said, rising to his feet
when she entered.

"My husband has made his wishes plain.  You may not
see our baby," she said.

"There's something that you don't know."

"Nothing that will change our decision," she said.

"Please, won't you sit?"

"I'm asking you to leave, Mr. Spender."

"Katie--Mrs. Mulder," he corrected himself.  "You must
wonder at my devotion to Mairead, at my continued
interest in your family."

"Is there a problem, Mrs. Mulder?" 

Skinner's gruff tone as he entered the room was
definitely welcome.

"Mr. Spender will be leaving now," Katie said.  Each
minute she spent with him was a minute away from her
baby.  Only the desire to spare Mulder and herself
from his continued petitions held her to her task.

"Look at me!" Spender urged her, and despite herself,
she did.  "I haven't slept in days.  I haven't had a
cigarette since I entered your home."

"Because I took them," Skinner said.

"Look at my face!  Don't you see who I am?  He has my
hair, my forehead."

Katie heard his desperation but felt only
indifference.

"My footmen will see you out," she said.

"Don't do this to me!  Don't keep me from my
granddaughter!"

Katie took a step back as Spender moved forward, and
in that instant Skinner was between them.

"Excuse us, Mrs. Mulder, while we carry out your
instructions," Skinner said.

"Best if you go now, m'am," said the senior footman,
who was moving into place beside Skinner.  

The footman had Spender by the elbow, but the old man
shook his arm out of the grip.  "Very well," Spender
said, straightening his spine.  "I'll leave.  But I
implore you, Mrs. Mulder.  Intercede for me with your
husband for all our sakes."
 
"Goodbye," she said, as she turned and left the
room.  She could feel every muscle, every bone in
her body as she climbed the stairs and went to 
her suite.

Katie bathed and donned fresh clothing.

"I'll wake you in an hour, m'am, as you instructed,"
Daisy said as she helped with the buttons.

"No need.  The bath revived me," Katie said.  She
ignored her maid's mute protest and returned to the
nursery.

Vincent's face was grim. 

"Katie--"

"My God!"  

She ran to the crib, where Mulder leaned over the
rail, holding their baby's hand under the canopy of
the oxygen tent.  Mairead's little rib cage rose and
fell as before, but perhaps more slowly.

"Mama and Papa love you so much," Mulder said, his 
mouth close to the canopy and his voice low.  "Can
you open your eyes for me, sweetness?"
 
"I tried to rouse her so she could take some water,"
Vincent said.

"No," Katie whispered.  "Please God, no."  Her legs
felt shaky as she lowered herself into the chair 
Vincent pushed under her.  "Mairead?  Sweetie, can
you hear Mama?  Can you hear me?  I love you, 
darling."

The house was quiet as they sat by Mairead's crib.
Katie was vaguely aware of Miss Muir and Vincent 
moving in the room, but her eyes never left her 
baby's face and her hand never stopped stroking
the soft skin of Mairead's arm.

Mairead's chest still moved, but the interval was
longer between exhalations.  Tears streamed down
Katie's face and she swiped at them with one hand.
Mulder was sobbing quietly, his face turned away.
Katie's mouth opened in a soundless keen as she 
realized her child was gone.

Under her hand, Mairead felt cooler, but Katie took
no comfort in that.   With an impatient hand, she
pushed the oxygen tent aside and lifted Mairead's
limp body out of the crib.  

Mulder lifted his head and turned to her, sorrow 
written on his face.  Her poor Mulder.  He seemed 
to have aged ten years in the space of a few weeks.  
Their eyes met, an unspoken question in his gaze.
She nodded slowly and he enfolded them both in his
arms.  She felt him tremble as sobs racked his body.

"My baby.  My baby."  Katie said it again and again,
as if a chant could stifle her pain.  Mulder's agony
was wordless, almost inhuman.  Then suddenly he
stopped and broke away.

"This can't be right," he said to Vincent.

"I'm so sorry," Vincent said.

"But you can save her."  The hope in his voice scalded
Katie.

"She's at peace," Vincent said, straining not to cry.

"But . . ."  The word faded on his lips.

"There's nothing I can do," Vincent said quietly.

Mulder's head fell forward and his shoulders dropped. 
Katie feared he would collapse, and Vincent must have
thought so as well, for he reached to catch him.

Mulder shook him off.

"Kate," he said.  

"Mulder."  She wanted to feel his arms again.  

"Things.  Things to be done," he said woodenly.

"No.  Please, Mulder, no."

Let this moment last.  Let this moment full of pain go
on and on, because the pain was all that remained of
their daughter.

He came and embraced her again, kissing Mairead's face
and arms and head.  And then he released her and
walked to the door.

"Things," he said.

Kissing the top of Katie's head, Vincent took Mairead 
from her arms.  Miss Muir, her face wet with tears, 
guided Katie from the nursery and to her suite of 
rooms.

"That poor, poor little one," Cook cried as Daisy 
admitted her to the sitting room.  "She was the 
most happiest baby I ever saw."  The woman's shoulders
shook as she covered her face and sobbed.  Not knowing 
how an aristocrat would handle such a thing, Katie drew
Cook down to the sofa and sat with her arm around the
old woman.  

They all came to weep before Katie.  Each housemaid,
every footman and groom.  She bore it alone, her 
penance for the sin of bringing death into the 
house.  Mulder couldn't bring himself to face them,
retreating to the library.  

Miss Muir was ghostly pale and trembling when she
came to the sitting room to see Katie.  

"I...I'm so sorry," she said, her voice shaking
with emotion.  "I want you to know how much I loved
your little girl."

"Mr. Mulder and I do know that.  No one could have
taken better care of her than you did."

"I would have given my life for her," Miss Muir said 
before dissolving in tears.  Katie put an arm around 
her shoulders.   

"I know."  Katie had no trouble believing Stacy Muir.
 
Skinner went to the boarding house to tell Maggie
Scully that her only granddaughter had died.   
Katie was more grateful to him for that than she 
could ever tell him.  

After he left, she wandered from room to room, 
unable to rest.  Katie went into the library where 
she found Mulder on the telephone, a glass of whiskey 
in his hand.  

"Yes...yes...that will be fine.  Thank you, Father
Manning."

He hung up the phone and looked up at Katie.  "I told
him the funeral would be limited to the family."

"You called Father Manning at Trinity Church," Katie 
said.  

"Naturally.  That's where she was baptized."  

Maggie Scully had been devastated when Mairead had
been christened at Trinity instead of St. Brigid's.  
Katie had gone along then, wanting to make peace with
her new family and believing that God would accept
and love Mairead no matter which church her baptism  
took place in.  

"I thought perhaps we could call Father McCue." 

"You may call him if you wish, but the funeral will
be the day after tomorrow at Trinity Church.  I'm 
going out," Mulder said, putting down his glass.

"Mulder, please," she said, laying a hand on his arm.  

"I...I need some air, Kate, that's all.  I won't
be long."

He squeezed her hand, but pulled out of her grip and
was gone. 

When Skinner returned from his sad errand, he had 
someone with him.  

"Katie, oh my God, Katie," Missy said, enveloping her
sister in a fierce embrace.

"Is Ma okay?" Katie asked.  Missy had been nursing 
Maggie through her illness.  Katie wasn't sure she 
could handle another tragedy.

"Ma's fine.  Weak as a kitten, but she wanted me to 
come," Missy said.  "Said she didn't want you to 
be alone."

Those words untied the knot of Katie's emotions and
she fell into her sister's arms and cried.  Her own
tears flowing, Missy held her sister, rocking slightly 
and murmuring low until Katie fell asleep.

When Katie woke, the bedroom was quiet and dark,  
the streetlights outside the only illumination. 
Mulder stood in the doorway, shaking with exhaustion,
his eyes haunted and his clothes wet.

"Have you eaten?" Katie asked, rising from the bed.

"I'm not hungry," he replied.  As Katie crossed the 
room, she could tell that Mulder had been crying.

"You're chilled through," she said, laying a hand 
along his jaw.  His skin was clammy.  "Come on, I'll
run you a hot bath."

"I'm sorry I woke you.  Go back to bed," he said,
sounding raw and numb.

He should go to bed himself, she knew.  He should
change to dry clothing.  

"You're going to the library," she said, feeling all
too certain.  He would sit in the large leather chair
and stare into the unlit fireplace, drinking whiskey 
until sunrise, or until sleep overtook him.

He turned his face away, then turned his back and left
the room.   

She returned to bed.  Mairead was gone, whether Mulder
was warm in bed or drunk in the library.  It was as
if Mulder was on the other side of an ever widening
fissure and her arms ached too much to reach across.

Exhaustion and grief formed a dull patina that
protected her as she moved through the next day.  
She could exchange platitudes with her mother-in-law,
discuss arrangements with Father Manning or give 
directions to the servants.  Her lips could form 
the needed words, without ever speaking the only 
ones that mattered.

Mairead is dead.

Katie felt like a ghost among the living as she sat in
the church that wasn't her church and tried to focus
on the service.   Mulder was at her side, another
ghost.   She was surprised when he took her hand,
surprised it was possible that two ghosts could touch.

She heard sobs from the farthest pews, and knew it was
Cook.  Only on Katie's express orders was the
household staff permitted to attend.  Mairead was dead
whether the servants were here or at home, but these
people had been part of her life, much more so than
Samantha or even Teena.

Samantha and her husband sat in the front pew.  Katie 
knew there had been some discussion about where to place 
them, but she'd been entirely indifferent.  

Maggie Scully did not attend, still weak from her
illness.  Missy was there with her oldest son, who sat
stiff and somber.   At the mansion that morning, Michael 
had been unable to control his tears, and Mulder, who 
could barely  force himself to talk to his wife, had 
gotten on his knees to console him.

"She loved you very much," he had told the sobbing
boy.

In the row behind them, Cornelius Spender sat with
Teena Mulder.  Mulder had glared and said something 
to Spender that Katie hadn't heard when the other 
man had tried to follow Teena into the first row.  
When Spender had deferred and moved back to the 
second pew, Teena had followed.  

Spender's eyes were red-rimmed and grief had lined 
his face even more deeply than usual, but Katie 
could not find the energy to care.  Mairead was
dead.  It was the only thing that mattered.

Father Manning performed the rites and rituals of
death and spoke the words of comfort but Katie 
couldn't take her eyes off the tiny white marble 
coffin and the bouquet of pink roses atop it.

Mairead would have liked the casket.  Katie could
picture her clambering on top, could almost hear her
piping voice:  "Mama, look!"

Mulder squeezed Katie's hand and passed her his
handkerchief.  It was soaked.

At length the service ended, drawing them one step
closer to the last farewell.  Mulder took her arm and
guided her from the pew.  She felt weightless and
helpless, and  it reminded her of their time at
Twin Pine Lodge, when Mulder's strong arms kept her
afloat in the icy lake.  Mulder had kept her safe. 
Mairead was safe too, then, safe inside where nothing
could hurt her.  

They passed through the gauntlet of mourners who waited
at the front of the church, and Katie was grateful
Mulder had insisted on a private service.  People
murmured their condolences, and Katie found the
strength to thank them.   

Skinner took Katie's hand, the eyes behind his spectacles
full of sadness.  "Please don't hesitate to call on me,
Katie, for anything at all."

"Thank you, Walter.  Your kindness is deeply appreciated."

Stacy Muir whispered a few words, her face a white mask.
Mairead spent more time with this young woman than she
did with her mother.  Miss Muir had seen more toothless
smiles, heard more babbles, received more sticky hugs.
Katie felt a sharp stab of jealousy as she offered her
hand.

Shayna Berkowitz had no words to offer, just shook her 
head in sorrow.  Her son Izzy stood beside her, his 
shabby suitcoat tight across his chest.

"Miss Scully, I'm sorry your baby's dead," he said. 
 
"Thank you, Izzy," Katie said.

"At least she didn't burn," he finished.

"Izzy!  Katie, darling, I'm sorry.  He's never been in
a church before," Shayna apologized.

Strangely, Katie took some comfort in Izzy's words,
but she couldn't tell him because she was crying
again.  

"Thank you, Izzy.  She went peacefully," Mulder said. 
He gathered Katie to his side, stiff and straight as
he conducted her down the steps and into their
carriage.  Then, when the doors closed, she felt him
slump against the padded seat back.

Katie wanted to scream when the hearse pulled into
place ahead of them, but she held it in.  Mulder was
very quiet, his face almost slack.

The ride to the cemetery was too quick, and Katie
wasn't prepared for it to end.  Mulder helped her out
of the carriage.  

The Mulder mausoleum was squat and gray, an ugly house
for the dead.  Her poor baby was going to be laid in
that cold, cold house with only the other Mulders
to watch over and comfort her.  If that horrible old
man was to be believed, Mairead was no kin to the 
inhabitants.

It was only Missy's strong hand around her arm and
Mulder's around her waist that kept her upright through
the interment.  Katie wasn't sure how Mulder remained
on his feet.  His face was a mask of pain, his grip 
tight enough to leave bruises.   

If the journey to the cemetery was too short, the 
trip home seemed to take forever.  She wanted to jump 
from the carriage and run back to the mausoleum
where her baby lay.  Instead, she looked through the
back window of the carriage as the cemetery became
ever more distant.  

The gathering at the house was hushed and serious.  
It was an odd collection of mourners.  Only a few of
the wealthy were in attendance, shoulder to elbow with
residents of Clinton Street.  

The servants had changed clothes as soon as they'd
arrived back at the house and were now circulating
with hot coffee and dainty sandwiches.  Edgar 
personally brought a tray to Katie.

"Please try and take a little coffee, Mrs. Katherine," 
he said, his voice cracking.  "I made it with 
extra milk and sugar for you."

"Thank you, Edgar," Katie answered, ignoring the 
sandwiches he brought, but gratefully taking the 
coffee.  Shayna tried to get her to eat, but Katie 
was only able to choke down a few bites.

Dewitt Traut was there, subdued and rather awkward, 
as if all his social experience could not have prepared 
him for such a tragedy.   He spoke quietly with Teena.
Her mother-in-law seemed lost without Spender, who 
had wisely chosen not to risk antagonizing Mulder.

The Schroeders attended, though Katie had lost touch
with Camilla over the last year.   Cammie embraced
Katie with genuine emotion, whispering that she 
hoped God would bring Katie peace.  

Edgar admitted a somber Father McCue to the drawing 
room.  The priest crossed the room, taking Katie's 
hands in his.  She hadn't expected him since they 
hadn't baptized Mairead in the church.

"I'm so sorry for your loss, Katie," he said.  "I 
know little Mairead is cradled in Our Lord's own 
arms today."

"Thank you for coming, Father," Katie answered.  
His words were well-meaning, but the only arms Katie
wanted to cradle Mairead were her own.  

People stayed only as long as decency demanded, and
Katie was sorry to see them go.  Not because she was
comforted by their words or their presence, but
because the end of the gathering carried her further
still from her daughter's life.

"I have to go, honey.  Michael is worn out," Missy
explained unnecessarily.  

"He was a very good boy," Katie said.  "Thank you for
coming, Michael."

He nodded in reply, wiping his sleeve across his face.

"I'll have Dunham take you home.  And no argument,"
Katie told her sister.

Dewitt Traut found her next.

"I can't express how sorry I am," he said.

"Thank you."

"Fox insists he'll be back at work tomorrow.  Try to
convince him he needs more time."

"You're very kind," she said.

Almost everyone was gone.  Katie saw Mulder alone,
staring out the window, and she crossed the room
toward him.  She watched as Samantha approached him, 
laying her hand on his arm.   Samantha said something
inaudible, but Katie heard Mulder's reply distinctly.

"Be glad that you don't have children," he said
bitterly.

With one simple declaration, he repudiated Mairead's
existence.

"Mulder!"  Katie gasped, forgetting to use his given
name.

"Katie,"  Samantha turned to her.  "I haven't had the
chance yet to tell you how very sorry we are about
poor Mairead."

Katie thanked her briefly, her eyes drilling through
Mulder's back.

"How could you say that?" she asked him.

Mulder turned from the window, facing her at last.

"How could you ask me that?"  He held a glass of
whiskey, which she should have expected.  

"Our daughter, our precious child. . ."

"But look what we did to her."

"Fox, you mustn't think that way," Samantha said.  
"You were loving and devoted parents."
 
"I will never forgive myself for carrying this disease
to her, but I cannot wish that she hadn't been born,"
Katie said.

"Katie, you mustn't blame yourself," Samantha said.

"You survived," Mulder said.  

Katie covered her mouth, holding in the shocked
cry that threatened to escape.  

"Fox, please," Samantha exclaimed.  "You mustn't 
say such things." 

"You don't understand, Samantha.  We think we're
privileged, but in fact we're weak.  If Mairead 
didn't have our frailty, she wouldn't have died."  

"I wish it had been me.  Don't you know that, Mulder?"
Katie asked.

"Kate, no."  He reached for her, noticing the drink
in his hand.  With one swallow, he downed the whiskey
and put down the glass.

"You have to stop blaming yourselves," Samantha said,
gently.  "You had no control over what happened to
Mairead."

"I should have been like Father," he said.  "I should
have insisted that Katie stay home from that cursed
clinic.  Father wouldn't have been so weak."

"I killed her," Katie said, her voice sounding
as if it belonged to someone else. 

"Stop it," Samantha said.  "You're both exhausted.  
Have either of you eaten?  Let Edgar bring you some
food, please."
  
"Yes, you should eat, Kate.  I...I'm not hungry.  If
you'll excuse me."  Mulder nodded to his sister and 
rushed out as if he could not bear one more minute in
the room.

"He isn't thinking clearly," Samantha told her, taking
her hand.  "He loves you very much."

"I know," Katie said.  In her heart, she knew Mulder
would always love her, but she feared that love would
always be tainted by grief.  "I think I'd like to 
rest for a while."

"Yes, certainly.  Sean and I should be going."

Leaning heavily on the banister, Katie climbed the
stairs.  She was weary beyond words, but knew she 
would never be able to rest until she spoke with Mulder.
She knocked lightly on the library door.  When no 
response came, she held her breath and pushed the door 
open.

Mulder sat at the desk, his head in his hands.  Clutched
in one of those hands was a familiar little scrap of
fabric.

"Oh my God," Katie gasped.  She'd searched the house for
Blanky the day Mairead had died.  Now she understood why
the blanket couldn't be found.  

"Kate," Mulder said, raising his head.  His gaze dropped
to the sad remnant in his hand.   

"I looked everywhere for that.  She couldn't sleep without 
it.  Oh Mulder, how could you?"

"It's all I have," he said, his fingers reflexively 
squeezing the blanket.  "There's nothing left."

He turned away, his shoulders slumped.

"Mulder..." she said, her hand reaching for him and then
dropping down to her side.  "Don't do this.  Don't close 
yourself off.  You need..."

"I need to be left alone," he shouted.  "I need
my child back."

"I'm sorry," she said.   That was the one thing neither 
of them could ever have.

"Kate, please, just leave me alone.  I...I can't bear 
to look at you."

Stunned, Katie backed toward the door.  Her fingers 
scrabbled at the knob and she finally managed to 
escape the room.  Her head was swimming, the echo
of Mulder's words ringing in her ears.  

Katie felt weightless, insubstantial, as she moved
through the house.  The servants were busy tidying
the drawing room, the occasional sniffle punctuating
their silent work.  

Teena had retired to her rooms.  Samantha and Sean
Pendrell had left for their hotel. 

Katie climbed the stairs, hesitating as she 
passed the nursery.  They'd closed it off
and Miss Muir had moved her things to another 
bedroom.  As Katie passed by, she saw Miss Muir
closing a brown leather suitcase.

"Where will you go?" Katie asked from the doorway.

"Walter...Mr. Skinner helped me find a room."

"Good.  That's good," Katie said.  "Thank you, 
Stacy...you took good care of Mairead."

"She was easy to love," Miss Muir replied.

"Yes.  Yes, she was.  Mr. Mulder will write
you a letter of recommendation.  I'll leave
him a note."  

Stacy Muir looked puzzled at that but Katie was 
gone before she could ask any questions.

"Mrs. Katherine," Daisy said as Katie entered
the bedroom.  "Shall I run a bath?"

"No, thank you, Daisy," Katie replied.  "Would you
get my valise?"

"Your valise, Ma'am?"

"Yes, please."

Daisy shot her a worried look but obeyed, opening
the bag and laying it on the bed.  

"You may go, Daisy," Katie said.  "I won't be needing
you for the rest of the day."

Once the maid had left, Katie went into the closet.
Her fingers roamed briefly over the bright silk 
dresses, settling for a moment on the gown she'd
worn so long ago to Mrs. Schuyler's birthday ball.
She pushed it aside and pulled four of her plainest
dark dresses out of the closet and laid them in the
valise.   

She packed quickly, taking only the essentials.  Her
prayer book went into the bag, followed by two small 
framed photographs, one of Mairead and one of her
and Mulder on their wedding day.   

She crossed to the jewelry box on her dresser.  Mulder
had been generous since their marriage and the box
was filled with diamond necklaces, ruby and emerald
bracelets and more rings than Katie had fingers.  
She left them all except for the sapphire necklace 
Mulder had given her that first Christmas together 
and her grandmother's cameo.  

Snapping the valise closed, Katie lifted if from the
bed.  She had a bit of money put away, a pittance
by Mulder standards, but enough for Katie's needs.
She put the money in her handbag and left the room.

"Mrs. Katherine, where are you going?" Edgar asked 
when she instructed him to have Dunham bring the car 
around.  

"Goodbye, Edgar," Katie said, offering no explanation.
She walked out into the bright afternoon sunlight and
stepped into the car.  "Take me to the train station,
please."

***************************************************

"Katie? I'm so thirsty.  Where are you, Kate?"  

"Here, Fox.  Let me help you."  Her voice was soft, and
she smelled of soap and roses.

An arm snaked gently behind his shoulders, raising his 
head.  Cool water slipped past his parched lips.  
Greedy, he drank too quickly and coughed.  His chest 
burned and he groaned. 

"Easy, Fox.  Just a few sips."

Something wasn't right.  Katie always called him "Mulder."
He must be very ill, indeed, for her to call him by his
given name.  

He couldn't see her.  The room was dark and he could 
barely make out her slender shape.  Something was wrong,
but he was tired, and it was so hard to think.

"My head hurts," he said.  A cool hand came to rest 
against his forehead.  The touch was gentle, but wrong,
somehow.

"Your fever is down, thank God."

He grabbed at her hand before she could move it, and held
it between his palms.  It wasn't right.  Katie had 
capable little hands, swift and sure in their ministrations.
This wasn't Katie's hand.
 
"Where is Katie?" he asked, weakly.  He raised himself
up on one elbow, his hand outstretched.  His arms had no 
strength and he was easily pushed back onto the mattress.
"Why isn't she here?"

"You've been very ill, Fox."  Gentle fingers brushed
the hair from his forehead.  "You need to stay in bed."

"Samantha," he said, finally recognizing the voice. 
"Why is it so dark?"  

"You complained that the light hurt your eyes.  We've
kept the shades drawn and the lamps turned down.  I'm
so glad you're awake.  How do you feel?"

"Everything hurts," he mumbled.  "My chest...it hurts
to breathe."

"Fox, you had us all so frightened."

"Please tell me.  Where is Katie?"

"Let me call Dr. Wieder."

"You can call him later.  Tell me."  He closed his eyes,
praying with all his might that she was alive.  His
memory was hazy, but he remembered Katie lying in this
very bed, looking as if she might slip away into death.   

"She's...she's not here, Fox."

The bedroom door opened and Walter Skinner peered in.  
"I thought I heard voices."

"Walter, why don't you sit with Fox and I'll let Dr.
Wieder know he's awake."  
 
Samantha exited the room with a swish of petticoats,
probably too uncomfortable to remain one moment longer.
Skinner looked like he'd aged ten years, his face 
drawn and tired.  He pulled a chair closer to the bed
and sat down.

"What happened to me?" Mulder asked.  "And where the 
hell is Katie?" 

Skinner took off his spectacles, rubbing weary eyes.
He polished one lens and then the other with his 
handkerchief.

"You locked yourself in the library after the
funeral," Skinner began.

"Funeral," Mulder echoed.  His precious child, ripped
out of his heart and laid to rest.  Her birth, which
almost took her mother's life.  One birthday.  One
death day.   The knowledge that his Mairead was dead
hit him like a stone dropped from a great height. 

"That was six days ago," Skinner continued. "You and
Katie had words, and some time after that she left the
house."

"We argued? It's not possible."

"Daisy heard the two of you."

"I...it's all a blank.  I just know I couldn't bear
to see the pain on her face.  I remember being relieved
when she left the room."

"I understood if you wanted to be alone, but after two
days I broke down the library door."

"Where's Katie now?  Didn't someone try to find her?"

"I telephoned to her mother and the clinic, but no one
has seen her."

"Didn't you go look for her?  She's been terribly ill,
and she just lost Mairead!"  Mulder's outburst threw
him into a fit of coughing, and the pain in his ribs
forced him back down against his pillow.

"I sent Dunham around, and Miss Muir made some
inquiries.  Mulder, I don't think you understand how
sick you were yourself."

"I had pneumonia?"  

"You were sicker even than Katie had been.  You had
drained every drop of whiskey in the library, and that
weakened you further."

"It made me feel better.  Stopped the cough," Mulder
explained.

"Wieder thought you were going to die."

"We need to find Katie.  Help me up, Skinner."

"It's too soon."

Mulder struggled to rise from the bed without help,
but his chest burned and he saw spots before his eyes.

"Damn it, Skinner," he groaned in frustration.
"I have to talk to Daisy."

"I'll find Daisy and bring her to you but you have to rest."

Mulder realized he had little choice.

"Can you get some paper?"

Skinner returned with a pad and looked at Mulder
expectantly, waiting for his dictation.

"I'm not too feeble to write," Mulder said, angrily,
but his hand shook as he reached for the pen.  "Go
find Katie." 

Samantha returned as soon as Skinner had departed, 
carrying a silver tray.

"Cook prepared beef tea for you," Samantha told him. 
 
"Not now," he said.

"You have to eat, Fox, or you'll never get well."

"Leave it here, then."

She looked doubtful.

"You'll pour it in the potted palm.  I remember that 
trick," she said.

He smiled weakly, remembering happier times with his
sister.

"Samantha, I need to ask you something.  Is there
anything in this house, anything of Father's, that
you're especially fond of?"

Her face grew serious.

"Stop that, Fox.  You're frightening me."

"Never mind, then."  

She withdrew from the room, still shaken.  Mulder
tried to sit up, but he was simply too weak.  Instead
he turned on his side and began to write.

"Last Will and Testament."

Samantha always loved the farm, but Mulder thought now
that he would like to give it outright to Jim Parker,
who had run it so well for so long.  That reminded him 
to place a stipend for Kevin Kryder, with a sum to be 
awarded when he came of age.

He would give Samantha the Lodge.  His heart almost
broke again at the thought.  It should have been for
his sweet daughter.  It was all supposed to go to her.
 
Samantha had been slighted in Father's will, and
Mulder righted that wrong.  He also passed to her his
share of the Little Dynamo Company, making her an
equal partner with her husband, Frohike and the
others.

Mother would be as secure and pampered as he could
make her.  He couldn't prevent her from turning to
Spender, but it would not be from necessity.

Mulder sank back on the pillow, to work out the
details in his mind before the exhausting task of
committing them to paper.

The Clinic would have to be fully endowed, with
generous salaries for the staff.  

Skinner would be the perfect owner and proprietor of
Mulder's mining interests, meager as they were.  He
added assorted holdings to round out the settlement.

Charlie Scully, Melissa and her boys, Margaret.  Edgar
and the other servants.  Even Miss Muir.  It wasn't
her fault.  His, perhaps, but not hers.

Everything else for Katie.  

Exhaustion overtook him and he drifted in and out of
consciousness.  Images floated before him:  Katie,
standing before him, naked, the first time they made
love, her waist so tiny he could span it with his
hands; Mairead in the nursery, banging away on her
contraband pots and pans; he and Katie, holding 
Mairead between them as their baby breathed her last.

He roused to the bedroom door opening as Skinner led
a frightened Daisy into the room.  

"Took you long enough," Mulder said.

Skinner ignored his complaint.

"Daisy, Mr. Mulder has a few questions for you.  You
don't need to be afraid," he said.

As he was currently unable to raise his head off the
pillow, Mulder figured Daisy didn't have to worry.  

"Daisy, you spoke to Mrs. Katherine before she left?"

"Yes, sir.  She was powerful sad, sir."

"Did she say anything to you?"

"No, sir.  She just asked me to get her valise.  Then
she told me to go."

"But why?  Why would Katie leave?" he asked.  The 
question was purely for himself, so he was surprised
when Daisy spoke further.

"Maybe...I think maybe..."

"Daisy?" Mulder asked.  "If you know something, you 
have to tell us."

"I think maybe it was what you said to her in the
library, sir.  I didn't mean to overhear, but I was
in the hallway and your voice was raised."

"I'm not angry, Daisy.  Please, tell me."

"You said you needed Miss Mairead back," Daisy said
with a sob.  "And then you said you couldn't bear to 
look at her."

Memory flooded back like the relentless wash of the tide.
"Oh God," Mulder said.  "It was too much.  Too much.  
I...couldn't stand to see the pain in her face."

Daisy was weeping softly, but Mulder turned his head
away, shocked and shamed that Katie had fled their
home with his own bitter words in her ears.  He heard
Skinner thank the maid and dismiss her.  Daisy left,
still crying, but Skinner stayed.

"You're thinking I drove her away, and she's well rid
of me," Mulder said.

"We'll find her," Skinner said.

"You'll help me search?"

"I will search, Mulder.  You will remain in bed."

"I can rest in the motorcar!"

"Certainly.  As soon as Dr. Wieder gives his
permission."

It was useless to argue.

"Then go."

"Mulder, you have to stay here and rest.  I don't
want to bring Katie back to find you collapsed on
the floor."  Skinner turned and left.

Samantha returned, carrying another tray.

"I haven't yet had time to enjoy my first beef tea,"
Mulder complained.

"It's iced tea."

She rearranged the pillows behind him as he struggled
to sit up.  He drank in long gulps, gasping for breath
in between.

"Samantha, I'd like to question the servants.  Someone
might know where Katie has gone."

"After Dr. Wieder sees you, perhaps.  He'll be here 
soon."

When Wieder arrived, he gave orders of complete bedrest
for Mulder, with no visitors at all.

"Mr. Mulder, if you don't heed my instructions, I won't
be held responsible.  You were near death and your 
body needs to recover.  If you aren't careful, the 
illness could spread to your heart or your brain."

Samantha thanked Wieder and showed him out, shooting 
Mulder a stern glance before she closed the bedroom door.

"How could it possibly harm me to talk to Cook, or Edgar?"
he asked when Samantha returned.  

"Because I know you, Fox.  You won't 'just talk'.  Stay
in bed, please, and let Mr. Skinner do his job."

Samantha was caring and attentive, and Mulder was
appreciative, although her devotion meant less to him
now than it would have in years past.

That evening Mother made an appearance.

"You had me very worried, Fox," she said.

"I'm sorry."

"Darling, I grieve for your suffering, but sometimes
things happen for the best."

"I will not hear this."

"Oh, I'm not talking about poor, dear little Margaret.
But your Katherine--perhaps she realized that our
differences were too great."

With more strength than he knew he had, Mulder raised
himself on his elbows.

"My daughter--your granddaughter--is Mairead.  Her
name is Mairead."

"My goodness, Fox, I didn't mean to upset you."

"And my Katherine--my wife, Mother--is my only reason
for living."   

"Very well, Fox. I only meant to suggest--"

Mulder interrupted.

"I'm very tired.  Would you kindly have Edgar send
someone to assist me?"   

"Of course, dear."

Mother retreated, to Mulder's relief, and it was Edgar
himself who came to tend him.

"I have some papers for my attorney," Mulder said. 

"I'll see that they're delivered.  Anything else,
sir?"

Mulder considered how to phrase his next request. 
Communication between himself and Edgar followed
certain formulas, all of which he rejected.

"I need to find my wife," he said.

Edgar didn't blink.

"Very good, sir.  Dunham was the last to see Mrs.
Katherine.  I'll send him to you in the morning."

"Thank you," said Mulder.  

"Would you like me to contact Mr. Bocks, sir?"

"Not yet."

"Very good, sir.  May I suggest a bath?"

Mulder wasn't sure he had the stamina, but decided to
try.  

"Please."

Edgar helped him to his feet when the bath was ready,
but Mulder accomplished the rest of the operation
unaided.  He knew that Edgar was standing at attention
on the other side of the bathroom door, but Mulder was
able to climb out of the tub and into fresh pajamas
without calling on him.

The bed was freshly made, but it looked so huge and
desolate that he wished he could retreat to the
library.

"Will that be all, sir?" Edgar asked when he had
reluctantly settled himself in bed.

"I'd like to see Dunham now.  I don't want to wait for
tomorrow."

"I'm sure he's retired for the night," Edgar said.

"What time is it?" Mulder asked, suspiciously.

"He'll be here in the morning, as soon as you've
finished with breakfast."

The next morning, Samantha brought Mulder's breakfast
tray, and sat by the bed watching him and counting
each spoonful of oatmeal he swallowed, each sip of
milk he downed.  

"I don't need a babysitter," he said, not bothering
to hide his annoyance.  Edgar wouldn't bring Dunham to
him if Samantha was still there.  

"I'm sure you don't.  On the other hand, I remember
watching you hide brussels sprouts in the Ming vase
that Mother was so fond of."

He ate as much as his stomach would allow, hoping
Samantha would stay away after she took his tray,
but she seemed quite content to putter about the 
room.  It was only when he feigned a nap that she
left him alone.

It seemed like hours before Dunham knocked lightly
on the bedroom door.  

"I'm sorry to have taken so long, sir.  Miss Samantha
won't allow any of the servants to bother you.  I had
to wait until she went into the library to make some
'phone calls."

"Then we had better not waste any time.  Mrs. Katherine,"
Mulder said.  "She asked you to drive her somewhere
the day of the funeral."

"Yes, sir.  She was so sad, sir.  It broke my heart.  
Her face was white as a ghost.  It was almost like...
almost like she wasn't alive, herself, any more."

"Where did you take her?" Mulder asked impatiently.  
"Did she say anything to you?"

"Just asked me to take her to the train station.  
Didn't say nothing more than that, sir."

"Did you go into the station with her?   Did you see
who sold her the ticket?"

"No, sir.  She made me let her out a block away.  Wouldn't
let me park the car, wouldn't let me carry her bag.  Just
disappeared into the crowd on the sidewalk."

Mulder's hopes dashed at the words.  Katie could have 
gone anywhere from the train station and he'd never be
able to trace her.  He supposed that Skinner had already
asked Dunham about that day, but Mulder had hoped there
might have been some detail, some hint he would be able
to gather from the driver's words.  

"I wish I could be more helpful," Dunham concluded.

Mulder looked into his bland, open face.
 
"Please fetch me my clothes," he said.

"Beg your pardon, sir?"

Mulder realized that Dunham's duties had never
included such personal services.  He indicated where
his things were kept with a wave of his hand.

"My trousers, from that wardrobe, if you don't mind.  
My shirts are in the dresser."

"How I understood it, how Miss Samantha instructed us,
sir, you need to rest," Dunham said awkwardly.

Would the chauffeur defy him, in deference to his
sister?  Mulder didn't think so.  He could have
repeated his order, but instead he waited.

"I suppose you could rest with your trousers on,"
Dunham said.

Dunham supplied the needed items, although his
discomfort was obvious.  Mulder was huffing with 
the effort to put them on.

"I would like to rest in the Rolls Royce," he said 
when he had finished.

"Yes, sir," the chauffeur said, unhappily.  "I'm
thinking you could rest better if we took the back
stairs."

How long since Mulder had slipped out the servants'
entry in the guise of Mathew Fox?  

"I'm certain you're right," he agreed.

By the time Dunham had helped him settle into the
back of the Rolls, Mulder was soaked in
perspiration.  

It was a warm day, he decided.

He instructed Dunham to take them to Missy's home in
Brooklyn, but the chauffeur corrected him.

"You'll find her at Clinton Street, sir."

So John Barleycorn had once again dragged Danny Murphy
from his family, leaving Missy to take shelter with
her mother.  Mulder was in no position to condemn him,
however.  He had drunk more than his share, stopping
only when both the decanters in the library were dry.

"Did you drive Mr. Skinner to the boarding house?"
Mulder asked.  

"Yes, sir, many times.  And always Mrs. Scully said to
leave them alone, for the love of God.  And Mrs.
Murphy said if Mr. Mulder cared worth a box of
matchsticks, he'd be banging on the door himself."

"Then let's go to Clinton Street.  If it's me they
want, then it's me they'll get."

Mulder closed his eyes as Dunham threaded through the
streets of New York.  His head ached, throbbing with each
bump of the road.  When they arrived at the boarding
house, he could barely muster the strength to get out
of the car and leaned on Dunham far more than he wanted.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Maggie Scully exclaimed when
she opened the door.  Mulder steadied himself on the
doorjamb as he entered the house, praying he wouldn't 
pass out in front of Maggie.  

"Well, lookit that," Missy said from the doorway, where
she stood drying her hands on her apron.  "Fox Mulder
in the flesh."

"I'm sorry I didn't come sooner," he said.  "But I am
hoping you have heard from Katie."

Missy took a better look at Mulder, coming into the
room.  "Mr. Skinner said you was sick.  We thought he 
was just makin' excuses."

"Have you...have you heard from her?" he asked.  Both
women had taken on a blurry, French impressionist look.
Missy was moving closer to him, with what might have
been pity on her face.

"The only word was a note she sent from the train
station, saying she had to go away for a while. 
That's how she's always been, handles everything on
her own.  If the truth be told, I'm startin' to get a
bit worried myself."

"Ya look terrible," Maggie Scully said.  "Are ya sure
ya should be out of bed?  Maybe ya should sit down."

"I'm fine," he assured her, but he did gratefully lower
himself into a chair.  

"Do ya want us to call Dr. Vitigliano?" Missy said.  "Ya
really look awful."

"No!" Mulder said, as forcefully as he could manage.  He
had to get out of the house before he passed out.  The
Scullys had no information for him, or weren't comfortable
sharing it.  He faltered when he tried to stand, but
then Dunham was at his side to haul him to his feet.

"Some tea for ya, or a cup of barley water?" Maggie
offered as Dunham helped him to the door.  "A
soft-cooked egg with some butter melted in?"
 
Mulder's stomach lurched, and he had to clench his
jaw.  Dunham answered for him.

"Thank you kindly, ma'am, but Mr. Mulder must be
going."

Mulder was grateful to achieve the soft back seat of
the Rolls Royce without the loss of consciousness or
his breakfast.  He covered his face with his hands, 
trying to block out as much light as he could.  His
head was pounding now.

"I'm taking you home, sir," Dunham told him from
behind the wheel.

"The clinic," Mulder said.

"Very good, sir."

Mulder was relieved by Dunham's ready agreement until
they parked at the clinic and Dunham announced his
intention.

"I'll  fetch somebody to help me carry you in, sir."

"Dunham, no," he said, keeping his voice steady.

"If you'll pardon me, sir, you're not walking very
well."

"Then ask Mrs. Berkowitz to come out." 

"She won't be much help, sir.  I'll ask Dr. Vitigliano
if he can tend you in the car."   

"I don't require tending.  I want to find my wife," he
said, too tired to raise his voice.

"I'll get Mrs. Berkowitz," Dunham said, uneasily.

It was only a minute before Shayna was standing by the
car, rapping on the window for Mulder's attention.

"Nu?  Where is Katie?" she asked.

"I don't know," Mulder said.

"Oy vay ist mir!"

"You haven't heard from her?"

"Just a note to say she was going away."

"I need her, Shayna.  I have to find her."

"You're telling me somethin' I don't know?  Some of 
these patients have the relapse from not takin' care a' 
themselves.  Come to think of it, you don't look so 
good yerself, Mulder.  Let me get Vincent..."

"That won't be necessary," he said, weakly.  "I'll be
fine as soon as I find my wife.   Thank you, Shayna."

He ordered Dunham to drive away.  Shayna had no
information of use to him.  Mulder was sure that 
as worried as she appeared, Shayna would have told him
Katie's location if only she knew it.

Mulder closed his eyes, resting his head against the
back of the seat.  If only it wasn't so hot today.  Sweat
was pouring down his back, soaking the shirt under his
coat.  It was hard to keep his mind focused on the problem
at hand--finding Katie.  It was so hard when his head
felt as if it would burst.

He remembered a time long ago when he combed the city 
looking for Katie.  He'd haunted the same places and 
questioned the same people that he'd seen today.  How
ironic that Katie had been mere blocks away, back then,
staying with Mrs. Tibby.

"Dunham," Mulder said.  "I want to go to Greenwich Village.
Thompson Street."  

"Very well, sir," Dunham answered, but the glance he gave
Mulder was one of worry.   Still, he drove to Mrs. Tibby's
house, a tidy brownstone on a shady street.

Mulder stirred in the back seat of the car.  He took a deep
breath, hoping it would revive him.  The result was a
coughing fit that made his chest hurt enough to bring tears
to his eyes.  The pain in his head was blinding.

"Shall I get someone for you, sir?" Dunham asked, as he got
out of the car.  He opened the back door and peered in at
Mulder.  

"No," Mulder said.  "Just help me out of the car and up those
steps."

Dunham bore most of Mulder's weight up the short flight.
Mulder's ears were ringing by the time he ascended the last
stair.   

"Fox!" Mrs. Tibby exclaimed as she opened the door.  "Are
you all right?"

"I'm fine," he answered, wishing his voice sounded stronger.
He followed Mrs. Tibby into the house.  Dunham stayed on the 
stoop, his hat clutched in his hands.

"That's a bit difficult to believe, I'm afraid.  You don't
look very well at all, Fox."

With her white hair and cultured voice, Mrs. Tibby reminded 
Mulder of his mother, if his mother had ever been able to 
show sympathy for anyone else.  

"Have you...have you heard from Katie?" he asked. 
"I've been so worried about her."

"I received a note from her a week ago.  She said she
was going away," Mrs. Tibby replied.

"Nothing more?  No word of where she might be
staying?"

"I'm sorry, Fox.  I wish I had some information to
give you."

"I'd hoped...so hoped that you might..."  He was having 
difficulty forming words.  Disappointment crushed him, 
literally pushing him down until he felt the floor rise up
to meet his body.

He couldn't control his body.  He was aware of movement and
how hard the floor felt under him.  He couldn't see, as his
eyes squeezed shut, but he could hear Mrs. Tibby's heels
clatter as she ran to the door.

"Driver!  Call a doctor!" she shouted.  "Mr. Mulder is 
having a seizure!"

*****************************************
 
"Mother, Mother, I am sick,
Send for the doctor, 
Quick, quick, quick!
Doctor, Doctor, shall I die?
Yes, my darling, 
By and by."

The children's voices were high and reedy, carried 
in the wind, along with the scent of the potatoes 
they were roasting over a small fire on the beach.  
They were barefoot, skinny, dirty-faced sons and 
daughters of fishermen, so like Katie and her brothers
and sister as children.

Katie turned and walked away, the brisk wind flaring 
her skirts behind her.  Knuckling the tears from her 
cheek, she kept her head down to avoid the stinging sand.

She walked for hours every day, up and down the
beach, where she moved past the fishermen like a ghost.   
Katie hadn't chosen this place.  When she'd left after 
her daughter's funeral, the only thing she'd known for 
sure was that she couldn't stay in the Mulder home 
for even one more hour.

She'd stood at the ticket counter, barely able 
to speak, let alone decide where she would go.  
The ticket agent must have grown frustrated, but
perhaps he sensed her bone-deep sadness.

"Lots of folks like the seashore," he'd offered.
"There's nice towns all along the New Haven Line."

So, she'd bought a ticket and gotten on the train.
When the conductor called out the stop for Stone
Harbor, Katie had risen from her seat as if propelled
by an unseen hand.  

The town was small, clinging to the rocky coast of
Connecticut like a barnacle on a boat.  Katie rented
a small cottage on a bluff overlooking the windswept
beach.  She rarely walked to town, except to purchase
a little food.  

Katie held her skirts above the sand, glancing down 
as her hands clutched the fabric.  Without her wedding 
ring, her left hand felt odd, wrong.  The week before, 
she'd packed the ring in a little box and walked to 
the tiny Stone Harbor post office to mail it back to 
Mulder.  It felt wrong to keep it.  She didn't
deserve the honor of owning it.  

Her husband couldn't bear her presence.  Deep down,
Katie knew that Mulder could never hate her.  But
could he ever look at Katie and not remember how 
her selfish insistence on working had killed their
child?

He would be better off without her.  If her time 
amongst the rich had taught Katie anything, it was 
that she would never belong.  Mulder couldn't 
recognize that, but having Katie in his life would 
only hold him back.  Better that he get over Mairead's 
death and Katie's loss, all at once, rather than drag 
things out to their inevitable ending.

Katie had been blinded by her love for Mulder and his 
love for her.  She had forgotten the immutable truth
that their lives together had been built on a lie.  
She'd fallen in love with Mathew Fox--a man who did not
exist. 

The man she'd married was Fox Mulder, a very different
man than the poor photographer who lived for his
art and for Katie.  Fox Mulder was as kind and loving
and exciting as Mathew Fox had ever been, but he was 
a mystery to her.  "The rich are different from us,"
Walter Skinner had told her years ago, and it was true.
Fox Mulder, for all his love, was often unfathomable 
to her in his thoughts and his actions.  

She could see her little cottage in the distance, its
weathered gray shingles and green trim shimmering in
the sun.  Katie supposed that happy families may have
spent happy weeks in its confines, but it had been an
empty structure to her, even when she was in it.

She picked up her pace as she approached the cottage.  
Leaning against the railing on the little porch was a 
dark clad figure.  His head was down, a hat obscuring 
his face.  For a second, she thought of Mulder and her 
heart seemed to skip a beat before she realized the 
figure was too broad across the shoulders.

"Hello, Kate," Skinner said as she climbed the steps.

"Hello, Walter," she replied, cautiously.  In spite of 
the warmth of the day, a chill ran down her spine.  
The feeling of foreboding puzzled her.  She had thought
herself too numb to feel anything.  

"How are you?" he asked.  At her shrug, he continued.
"We were so worried about you.  Please come home.  Mulder 
needs you."

"Oh, Walter, I'm the last person Mulder needs.  He can't
stand the sight of me."

"That's not true, Kate.  He wasn't himself before you 
left.  He...he's been very ill."

"Oh no," Katie said, panic settling in her belly.  She
remembered how thin and tired Mulder had gotten during
her illness, how he'd neglected himself when Mairead
became sick.  

"I know he said things, terrible things, but you have
to understand--he was out of his mind."

"I don't hold anything against him, Walter.  Whether it
was grief or illness, nothing has changed.  He was right.
I caused my child's death by my own selfishness.  His
illness didn't put the thoughts in his head.  It just 
allowed the words to come out."

"He does need you," Skinner said, taking Katie's hands.  
"When his fever broke, he became frantic because you were
gone.  He remembered...what he'd said to you."

"Walter...my coming back would only delay the inevitable."

"No.  You don't understand.  He went out looking for you
and collapsed.  Dr. Wieder says it's encephalitis.  Mulder
won't survive if you don't come home."

"Oh no.  Oh, dear God, no."  Katie felt her knees give way
and Skinner's strong arms encircle her.  He helped her 
over to the rocking chair that stood on the porch.  

"I have a ticket for you," Skinner said.  "We have to 
hurry if we're going to catch the train."

"What if he doesn't make it..." she whispered, her 
eyes downcast.

"Come on, let's get you packed up."

It took a pitifully short time for Katie to gather
her things and pack them in the valise.  She and
Skinner were soon on the train bound for New York 
City.

"How did you find me?" she asked, as they rattled
along in their seats.

"Your ring,"  Walter answered.  "I followed the
postmark to Stone Harbor.  If you hadn't sent it 
back, I never would have found you."

They didn't speak again until the train pulled into
Grand Central Station.   Skinner carried her valise
as they walked to the taxi stand.

"I'll send word to your mother as soon as we get
to the house," he said.  "She's been very worried
about you."

"Thank you," Katie answered, a pang of guilt tugging
at her.   She'd been so numb, so completely disconnected 
from life since losing Mairead.  It hadn't occurred to 
Katie that anyone would be concerned about her.  

She took a deep breath as she got out of the cab in
front of the Mulder house.  So much had happened here,
so much pain and sorrow.  And now, she had to try and
keep one more tragedy from unfolding.

The footman who admitted them to the mansion was too
inexperienced to maintain a bland facade.

"Mrs. Katherine!  It's grand you're back."  

"Thank you, Emil," she said.

"I'll fetch your things to your room at once."  He saw
the single valise that Skinner carried.  "I expect the
rest will arrive shortly?"

"Just this.  I'll see to it," Skinner said.

"Good to see you too, Mr. Skinner."

"It's less than a day I've been away," Skinner said.

"But. . . Well, you should talk to Edgar.  Mrs. Fowley
has been very persistent in trying to see Mr. Mulder."

Katie had hoped for Walter to accompany her upstairs,
because she was quite unsure how Mulder would react to
her presence.  But now she found she could wait no
longer.

"Excuse me," she said, her heart pounding as she made
for the stairs.  By the first landing she was
breathless, but she couldn't slow her pace.  

She expected to feel peculiar when she entered the
sitting room, but she wasn't prepared for the sharp,
painful memory.  This was where they had discovered
Mairead's fever.  

Katie crossed the room with even, deliberate steps. 
The bedroom was dim, and the door stood open.  

Mulder.  She watched from the doorway, counting the
breaths as his chest rose and fell.  He lay on his
back, arms outstretched.

A woman had been sitting by his bedside, and as she
rose Katie saw it was Daisy, who had been her personal
maid.

"Mrs. Katherine, you've come home," Daisy said in an
excited whisper.

"How is he?" Katie asked.

"Dr. Weider says only time will tell.  No more fits,
and that's all to the good."

"Fits?  Seizures?" Katie asked.

"Not since the first day, ma'am.  And see how nice he
sleeps?"

"He looks very comfortable.  You've taken good care of
him, Daisy, but I'm surprised that no one thought to
hire a professional nurse."

"You'll have to ask Mr. Skinner about that, ma'am,"
Daisy said.

Mulder looked so normal as he slept that Katie was
afraid to ask her next question.

"Does he wake up at all?"

"Yes, ma'am.  But he's not himself."

"Can he speak?" Katie asked.  She pictured him mute
and unreachable, his eyes darting in terror or
mindless rage.

"Oh, yes.  He speaks a great deal, ma'am, but you
can't always tell his meaning.  And sometimes. . .
sometimes who he's talking to isn't really there."

Katie touched the back of her hand to his forehead.

"He's quite warm," she said.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but he doesn't like his fever
tonic.  Miss Samantha could get him to drink it with
some honey mixed in, but he hasn't taken it since she
left."

Katie felt her face harden.

"Miss Samantha left him?"

"Her husband was hurt at the factory.  Word came on 
Tuesday, and she had to leave for home," Daisy 
explained.

"What about his mother?  Couldn't she coax him to take
his medicine?" Katie asked.  Teena was a shrewd
manipulator, most adept at bending her son to her
will.

"Mr. Spender sent her to Maine.  He feared the
sadness would be too much for her, and the illness
might take her as well."

Mr. Spender.  A disgusting, shameless man who beheld
the misery of others and saw only opportunity.  His
grief over Mairead had been genuine, but it wasn't
enough to turn him from his incessant scheming and
interference.   

"Would you bring the honey, Daisy?  When Mr. Mulder
wakes up, I will see if I can persuade him to swallow
the tonic."

"He'll drink it for you, ma'am.  I know he will."

"And then you may return to your regular duties."

Katie settled into the chair that Daisy had vacated. 
She waited for Mulder to awaken, but not without
apprehension.  Asleep he seemed full of peace and safe
from pain.  Suddenly he groaned and flung himself onto
his side.  He hadn't opened his eyes, but she knew he
was awake.

"Mulder," she said, touching his arm, "it's time for
your medicine."

Mulder sighed but didn't answer.

"I know you're awake, love," she said.

"You sound so real," he sighed.

"I'm here, Mulder."

"I'm dreaming you, Katie.  But talk to me, and I'll
pretend."

"Just open your eyes," she begged him.  

"Then you'll disappear," he said stubbornly.  

"Will you take your medicine?"

"Skinner threw away all my medicine."

"Mulder, that's nonsense."

He laughed.

"You sound exactly like her.  And Skinner did throw
away my medicine.  My Scotch medicine, my Irish
medicine, even my fine old French medicine."

"Listen to me, love.  I'm going to mix up the powder
with honey, to make it sweet."

"Leave it bitter."

Because he sounded serious and determined, she did as
he asked.  She wasn't surprised when he sat bolt
upright and swallowed the bitter draught in a few long
gulps.  She took the glass from his hand, and he 
collapsed back on his pillow.

"There.  Now talk to me in Katie's voice," he said.

Clearly he was on his way to recovery.   Katie felt
cautious about his dementia, but she had heard enough
babbling from the sickbed to know that such confusion
usually disappeared with the return of health.  For
Mulder, though, recovery would mean also the return of
sorrow.  

"I love you, Mulder."

"She would say that."

"And what would you say?"

"I would tell her to go."

Katie recoiled as if he'd struck her.  Mulder looked
more awake than ever, but still his eyes were shut.

"Talk to me!" Mulder demanded.  "Be Katie again!"

"But you wanted her to go," Katie managed to whisper. 

He answered with a couplet:

"So shall those blots that do with me remain, without
thy help, by me be borne alone."

"Shakespeare," she said.

"He was here yesterday.  Or I think it was yesterday."

"A sonnet."  Katie tried to remember the verse, a
famous one.  "Let me confess that we two must be
twain, although our undivided loves are one."

"Twain.  Mark Twain visited too."

Katie felt a lump in her throat.  "Such literary
visitors."

"Because I have no friends."

"Of course you do.  Walter.  Frohike.  Langly and
Byers."

"I pay them."

"But Frohike was your friend before that."

"And now he's my partner.  But Skinner. . . He's
Katie's friend, anyway.  He'll look out for her."

"Walter Skinner is your friend," Katie said
emphatically.

"Is he in the room with us?" Mulder asked. 

"If you would open your eyes you would know," she
said.  She had begun the conversation with a plan 
to draw him out, to understand what he was thinking.  
Now her answers were spontaneous, and often a 
surprise to her.

"But if I open my eyes, you might turn back to Mark
Twain."

"Perhaps I shall."

"He wrote a book, you know, about going back to an
earlier time.  I asked him about it."

"He wrote many fine stories."

"But it wasn't only a story.  He was good friends with
Nikola Tesla.  And I must talk to Leamus about
financial support."  Mulder's voice changed when he
spoke about business and money.  "An initial bequest
for Tesla, something sizeable.  Perhaps an endowment. 
After a few years the firm could underwrite an
offering--a little risky, but possibly quite
lucrative."

"So Tesla came to see you?"

"Mark Twain," he corrected her impatiently.  "But
transposition of the epochs, traveling across time.
That's a task for a scientist.  And if I could do
that, I could make everything right."

He grew quiet, and he turned his face into his pillow.

"Mulder?"

"Leave me now.  You sound too much like her," he said.

"Don't make me leave again.  Talk to me."

"If I could go back in time, I could make everything
right.  There isn't any other way."

"Oh, Mulder."

"The first time I met her I would tell her the truth. 
She would know my name, and why we had to get married
at once."

"Would she agree?" asked Katie, somewhat bemused.

"We have to get married, for our little girl."

"Mairead."  The name tugged at her heart as she spoke
it.

"I saved a boy once," Mulder said.

"My brother," Katie said.

"Another boy I sent away, to keep him from harm."

"Kevin Kryder."

"But my daughter, my own daughter."  Mulder curled
into a ball.

"Our baby," Katie said.

"My wife almost died giving birth.  But then we had
our beautiful daughter, and it let me forget what I'd
done.  How I'd hurt and shamed Katie, who never knew
shame until she met me."

"I never knew love until I met you," Katie said
fervently.

"If I could have been the man my father wanted me to
be. . .  Or the man my wife deserved. . .  But I was
neither.  An equivocator, a trespasser."

"Mairead died from pneumonia.  How can you hold
yourself to blame for that?"

She buried her face in her hands, but he touched her
wrist and drew her hands away.  He was sitting up and
his eyes were open at last.

"Don't cry," he said.  "You look exactly like her, and
I can't bear it if you cry."

"You're crying too," she said.

"Our child is gone," he said, his voice husky.

"I know," she whispered.

"But Tesla and Edison and H.G. Wells. . .  with all my
money they can make a time machine, and Mairead won't
be dead."

She put her arms around him and waited for him to push
her away, but he buried his face against her, sobbing
silently.  For a long time she rocked him and cried,
and when her neck ached too much for her to continue,
she crawled into bed beside him. 

Some time later Daisy roused her timidly, saying that
Mr. Skinner hoped she would join him for a light
supper.  Katie sent word she would see him in the
morning, and told Daisy she could retire for the
night.  After the maid had left, Katie got up to wash
and change into nightclothes, then slipped back into
bed without disturbing Mulder.

She had been glad for the merciful numbness she'd felt
walking on the rocky beach of Stone Harbor, but now,
as she lay in bed, her breasts pressed against
Mulder's back, she felt her heart stir in her chest. 
Before she had understood how Mulder would never again
see her without seeing also the agony of their loss,
and now she wondered if the same wasn't true for her.

Mulder was her love and her life, but he was also the
father of her precious child, lost forever.  Her love
was like a fire, searing her even as it warmed her
back to life.

She succumbed to sleep but awoke when Mulder turned so
that he was facing her, and she moved to accept his
embrace.

He clasped her tightly, finally loosening his hold
enough to wipe a tear from her face with his fingers.

"You came back to me, after all I've done."

"I care about you," she said simply.

"I need you, Katie.  I can't survive without you."

"Is this how it will always be for us?  Looking at the
past and trying to forge it into what might have
been?" she asked.

He looked at her, his eyes large and bright in his
gaunt, pale face.

"I will always ache for Mairead and wish she was with
us still," he said.

"And when you look at me, will you always see the one
who brought death home to our child?"

"What?  Of course not!"  His answer was too swift and
forceful to be a lie.

"But I did," she said softly.  "How can you blame
yourself and the clinic without blaming me as well?"

"Because helping people is what you do.  Mairead
understood.  She was so proud of you."

How the child could chatter!  What a din she could
raise, with her sturdy shoes on the marble floors or
her wooden spoon against a copper bowl.  It was only
when she was ill that she was quiet, only when
breathing came too hard that she was without a song or
a question.  

"Our beautiful girl," Katie said.  Every memory felt
heavy, but Katie treasured them all.  "You're right,
Mulder, we will always ache for her."

"As long as we live."

"Apart or together," Katie said.

"Together.  Please, together."

She stroked his hair and kissed his forehead.  If
he would have pressed, she would have promised to stay
with him.  How easy it would be, to close her eyes to
the obstacles between them.  

They slept in turns, it seemed.  She watched his
peaceful slumber, then later awoke with his eyes on
her, as if he was guarding against her escape.  As
dawn's light peeked through the curtains, she woke 
again, to an empty bed.

"Mulder?" she called, to no answer.  She found him
lounging in the bathtub, his head back so his ears
were submerged.  He sat up when he saw her.

"I thought I could do with a wash," he said.

"I would have helped you.  You shouldn't be bathing
alone yet," she said.

"I'm better.  I'm fine now," he said.

"I suppose we'll find out at breakfast," she said.

"As long as you can dissuade Cook from preparing my
'favorite,'" he answered.
 
Katie hated to call for a maid at this early hour, so
she stripped the bed by herself, and made it up with
fresh linen.  She returned to the bathroom as Mulder
was climbing unsteadily from the tub.  Once she had
him settled in the bed--in pajamas, although he
demanded his shirt and trousers--she pulled on her
dressing gown and tiptoed down the stairs in search of
nourishment.   

"Bread and jam," he said, when she brought him his
plate.  "Our first breakfast together."

"I don't think Cook would care to hear you refer to
her Damascus fig preserves as jam," Katie said. 

"Perhaps it's time to inform her that I would prefer
jam," he said as he took a generous bite.  He took a
long swallow of cold milk.

"You might even tell her that your 'favorite' has lost
its appeal, now that you're a grown man.  Gently, of
course."

"She made it for me my first holiday home from St.
Paul's," he said.  "My parents were out, and Cook let
me eat it in the kitchen."

The proud Mulder mansion held very few places of
comfort.  The nursery, once.  The darkroom, for
Mulder.  And the kitchen.

"How many rooms in this house?" Katie asked.

"I never counted," Mulder replied.

Katie had never felt that this house was her home. 
At times, she'd hated living here.  How sad that
Mulder was no more at home here than she.

Katie gathered up the remains of their breakfast to
carry them downstairs, and was pleased when she didn't
encounter anyone until she reached the kitchen. 
Walter Skinner stood by the stove, contemplating the
percolator with a mixture of regret and frustration.

"You're up early," she said as she set the tray down
on the table.

"I woke in the middle of the night," he replied.  "I
had some ideas for the book and had to write them down."

"Would you like some coffee?" Katie asked.

"Mulder and I spent several hours trying to unravel
the mystery.  Unlike him, I never got the hang of it,"
he admitted.

"If you grind the beans, I'll make the coffee," she
offered.

"How is Mulder this morning?" he asked.

"He's still weak, but his fever is down and he's very
much himself," she said.

"Thank God.  You have no idea how frightened we were."

"I was curious, Walter, why you didn't take on a
professional nurse for him," Katie said.

"I tried, twice.  They didn't work out," he said.

"Mulder drove them away, with his delirium?" she
asked.

"On the contrary, they meant to make the most of his
confusion," Walter said bitterly.  "I discovered the
first holding up some papers for him to sign, chiding
him because he couldn't grip the pen."

"Good lord," said Katie.

"The second woman came with the same spotless
credentials, but the same intent.  Edgar made the
discovery."

"Did you learn who had set them to their purpose?"
Katie asked.

"A colored man."

"Mr. Xavier?" Katie wondered.  Blaming a colored man
was a convenient and popular lie, even where dark skin
was rare and conspicuous, but on this occasion it
might be the truth.  The despicable Cornelius Spender
was probably behind the plan, and he could have sent 
his urbane hired man to bully and bribe the nurses.

"I didn't dare hire another nurse.  We took care of
him quite well ourselves, at least until Samantha had
to leave."

"Daisy told me her husband was hurt."

"He was shot," Walter said.

"Shot!"    

"A man came to the factory around closing time and
asked to see him. They went into Sean's office to
talk. If the foreman hadn't gone into the office
before heading home, I think Sean might have bled to
death."

"Will he be all right?"

"He's hanging on."

Apparently the gunman had forced Sean to open his
safe.  The police were faced with a lack of leads 
in the crime.

She left the dishes in the sink.  The kitchen staff
would be up by now, ready to start their work shortly.
The coffee was nearly ready, the percolator drumming
madly on the stove.   She turned down the flame and 
moved the pot off the heat.

Katie hadn't taken time to make coffee when she came 
down earlier so she took three cups from the shelf over 
the sink and filled them with the fragrant brew.  

"Have you told Mulder about Sean?" she asked, handing
Skinner a cup of coffee.  

"He wasn't well enough to hear it," Skinner answered.

"I think we should wait to tell him until we know more 
about Sean's condition."

Skinner nodded in agreement.  Carefully bearing the hot
coffee, Katie returned to the bedroom.   

"You were gone a long time," Mulder said.  "I was worried."

"No need to worry, love," she replied.  "I made us some
coffee."

It took all of Katie's energy to keep Mulder in bed that
morning.  Used to constant activity, he was restless and
bored.  Katie brought him the newspaper and some photography
books to occupy him, but they failed to engage his 
attention.

She was relieved when his weakened body finally insisted
on rest and he fell into a deep sleep.  Katie closed the
door quietly behind her.  

Perhaps there had been news from Detroit in the last few 
hours.  Katie went in search of Walter Skinner.  She found
him talking into the telephone in the library.

"Our thoughts are with you," he said into the speaker.  
"Let me know if there is anything we can do to help."   

"Sean?" Katie asked, hopefully.

"Yes.  That was Samantha.  He's not doing well."

"Oh dear," Katie said.  "Poor Samantha."

A knock on the door gained their attention.  

"Excuse me," Edgar said as he entered the room.  
"Mrs. Fowley is here, again, asking to see Mr. Mulder.  
I told her that he's not accepting visitors, but 
she's very insistent."

"Please show her to the drawing room," Katie said, 
hoping she had successfully hidden her distaste.  
When Edgar left, she glanced at Skinner.

"She's come calling every day," Skinner said.  

"I'll deal with this," Katie said.  Beyond the drawing 
room door, she smoothed her dress and took a deep breath.

"Good morning," Katie said as she entered the room.  "I'm
Katherine Mulder.  What can I do for you, Mrs. Fowley?"

Diana Fowley extended her hand with the cool assurance of
one who had never doubted her place in life.  She was older
than Katie had first thought, though still lovely in a 
brittle way.  

"I want to convey my condolences, Mrs. Mulder.  I was
horrified when I heard that your daughter had passed
away."

"Thank you," said Katie, and waited for Mrs. Fowley to
express the true purpose of the visit.

"I must see your husband."

"He is not receiving visitors this morning."  Katie
tried to sound neutral, but she remained very curious.

"Please, it's urgent.  It concerns his business."

"Then I suggest you call on Mr. Traut."

"I've been a friend of the family for many years.  I'm
certain Mr. Mulder would agree to see me."

"Are you?" Katie asked, blandly.

Mrs. Fowley pursed her lips, which made her look older
and harder than ever.  She shrugged her shoulders, and 
then she let them sag.

"No, I'm not.  And I fully realize what you must think
of me.  But I have important information for your
husband.  It's in his interest and yours to let me
speak with him."

"I will inform him of your stated purpose and will
send you a note if he decides to receive you."    

"I was sent here by Cornelius Spender," Mrs. Fowley
announced.

"Do you imagine I will bow to your wishes on his
account?" Katie asked indignantly.

"I am not here to obey Spender, but to thwart him."

Katie finally lost her patience.  The odious woman 
was clearly willing to try one gambit after another 
to achieve her audience with Mulder.

"Mrs. Fowley, it will be impossible for you to see my
husband today.  If you want to entrust me with your
information you may do so, but my time is limited."  

"I'm risking everything to bring you this warning!"

"Yet in the past you brought us nothing but trouble!"

"That's true.  I insinuated myself into Fox's life and
caused you both distress, but only because Cornelius
Spender forced my hand."

"But now you're willing to defy him."

"If not for Fox, I wouldn't know my daughter, and I
won't repay his kindness with treachery."

Katie listened at first as one listens to a well-told
yarn, deferring judgment as to its veracity.  Mrs.
Fowley described the circumstances of her child's
birth, how the child was taken from her, and how she
had allowed Spender to use her shameful secret to
manipulate her.

"Fox found my daughter for me, but more than that he
made me understand what I had lost."

Mrs. Fowley showed Katie a photograph and a review
clipped from a newspaper.  Katie had never heard of
the celebrated Louise Grace and saw little resemblance
between the sweet-faced actress and the shrewd, driven
woman who claimed to be her mother.  Nevertheless, she
believed Mrs. Fowley was telling the truth.  The
motherly pride was convincing, and the story was too
damaging to be an invention.

"How nice for you," Katie said, feeling the bitter
irony that Mrs. Fowley's child was a young woman,
while her dear Mairead had died before her second
birthday.

Mrs. Fowley hastily tucked her photo out of sight.

"I'm grateful to Fox, and I won't be party to
Spender's scheme," she said.  "He gave me papers for
Fox to sign."

"Papers?"

"A will, among other things.  Deeds, certificates.  If
I couldn't convince Fox to sign them, I was to testify
that he had communicated his intentions to me, even if
he wasn't able to commit them to writing."

"Was that all he asked of you?  Mulder's signature and
your false witness?"

Mrs. Fowley was genuinely startled.

"What more could he want?  What could be more
contemptible than robbing an invalid in the guise 
of friendship?"

Katie didn't answer, but rose to show that their
meeting had concluded.  Spender's perfidy was beyond
her normal vocabulary.  On hearing that the man he
called his son was facing death, he responded with a
plan for embezzlement.  

What would have happened if Mrs. Fowley or one of the
nurses had secured Mulder's signature?  Would Spender
have been content to let nature take its course? 
Perhaps the next visitor would have arrived with a
pistol instead of a pen.

"If he learns what I've done he will have his revenge.
I beg you for your discretion," Mrs. Fowley said.

"Of course, I'll keep this between us," Katie replied.  
"But, surely, he can do nothing to harm you, now."

"You mustn't underestimate him, Mrs. Mulder.  He 
frightens me, these days.  He was always ruthless,
but it's gone beyond that now.  He's irrational."

Mrs. Fowley departed, leaving Katie alone with her
rage.  She could compare Spender to a viper, a
scorpion or a swine, but it would be a slander against
the animal kingdom.  She tried to imagine what Shayna
would say.

*He should rot before he dies.  From the inside out 
he should rot.*

The curse satisfied her.  

Mulder was awake when she returned to the bedroom, 
flipping through one of the photography books Katie had
brought him earlier.  He looked up and smiled as she
entered the room.

"When I woke, I was afraid that you had been a dream,"
he said.  "Then I spotted your valise by the door."

"I'm real," Katie said, sitting on the side of the bed.
She placed her palm against his forehead and nodded in
satisfaction.  "You're fever is still down.  That's 
good."

"I feel fine.  I wish you'd let me get out of bed,"
he groused.  "It's boring lying here."

"Well, you'll need to be bored for at least a week,"
she said.  

Mulder undoubtedly would have found diversion in an 
account of Mrs. Fowley's visit, but Katie had no 
intention of telling him about it right now.   
He might just decide to chase down Cornelius 
Spender right then and there and Mulder was not 
nearly strong enough.

"Very well," he said with an exaggerated sigh.  "I
suppose I can put up with a week in bed as long as
I have you here to talk to.  I missed you so much."

Katie smiled and ruffled his hair.   "I was wondering
if you might occupy yourself for a few hours.  
I...I really need to see my mother."

"Of course," Mulder said, quickly.  He took her hand.
"You must go."

After lunch, Dunham drove Katie to the boarding house.
Missy opened the door and drew her into a tight
embrace.

"Oh, Katie, Ma and me were crazy with worry about ya."

"I'm sorry, Missy.  I didn't mean to cause trouble."

"Come on in and let me make ya a cup a' tea.  How is
Fox?"

"He's much better."

They went into the kitchen and Missy turned the heat
up under the kettle and began measuring tea into the
teapot.

"Where is Ma?" Katie asked, looking around the room.

"She's takin' a nap," Missy answered.  "She hates to
admit it, but since she was sick, she gets tired a 
lot."

"I'm so sorry.  Ma got sick taking care of me."

"Ya can't blame yerself."

Katie shook her head.  No matter what anyone said,
she would bear the burden of guilt to her grave.

"It's good that you were here to take care of Ma,"
Katie said.

"Well, it's not like I had any place else to go
when Danny drunk all the rent money and run off. 
I'm lucky Ma could take me in."

Missy poured hot water into the teapot and set the
table with cups and saucers.  

"It's good yer back," Missy said.  "Poor Fox come
by one day when ya was gone and he looked like 
death warmed over.  He was frantic.  Katie, the man
loves ya like crazy."

"I know he does, Missy.  I just wish it was enough."

"Oh, Katie, what are ya talkin' about.  He loves you.
You love him.  It don't have to be any harder than 
that."

"Missy, do you love Danny?"

"Danny has nothin' to do with this."

"You love him.  And I believe he loves you, too.  But
you can't make it work any more than I can with Mulder."

"Look it," Missy sputtered.  "Danny may love me, but
he loves the drink more.  You can't compare me and you.
Fox is a good man, and he loves you."

"It's just not that easy," Katie said.

"What's not easy?" Maggie asked from the doorway. 

"Ma," Katie said, rising and embracing her mother.  
"I'm glad you're feeling better."

"I feel fine," Maggie said, laying a hand on Katie's
cheek.  "It's good yer back, Kate.  Yer husband
needs ya."

"Let's have some tea," Katie said, pulling out a 
chair for her mother.  She managed to keep the 
conversation away from her relationship with Mulder,
but Katie knew her mother and sister had plenty 
more to say on the matter.

"Aunt Katie! Aunt Katie!"  Michael cried as he ran
across the kitchen to throw himself into Katie's arms.

"Have you been helping Mommy take care of Jimmy?"
Katie asked.  

He looked to his mother, in confusion.

"Jimmy ain't sick, is he, Ma?" he asked.

"Yer brother's fit as a fiddle," Missy reassured him. 
"I was just tellin' yer aunt what a big help you are,
mindin' him for me."

Michael turned his attention back to Katie.

"Ma said Mulder is sick.  An' Gran said he looks like
a raggedy bag o' bones that wouldn't leave a footprint
in the mud."

"If only you had such a memory for yer catechism," 
Maggie groused.  "And since yer such a help mindin' 
yer brother, go fetch him in from the yard before 
the mosquitoes gobble him up."

Katie stayed long enough to hug her youngest nephew,
then took her leave.

"Get on home, yer husband needs ya," was Maggie's
goodbye.

Katie was surprised, on her return, to come face to
face with her young brother, Charlie.  He was
descending the front steps as she climbed out of the
Rolls Royce.

"Ahoy, Minnow!" he greeted her.

"Ahoy to you too, small fry," she said, but for the
first time she realized that he had overtaken her in
stature.

"I missed you," he said, seriously.  He was too tall
for her to ruffle his hair, so she hugged him.

"Look at you, Charlie, using the front entrance like a
proper visitor," she said.

"I didn't come to raid your pantry this time.  Mulder
wanted to see me."

"I'd like to see you myself.  Come back inside and
we'll raid the pantry together."

"Sorry, sis.  I have to get ready for my trip."

"And where do you think you're going?"

"New Jersey.  Official business with Mr. Traut!"

Katie had left Mulder with strict orders to rest,
orders which he'd apparently flouted.

"Mulder is sending you to New Jersey?" she asked.

"He told Mr. Traut I'll be invaluable as a porter and
messenger.  Do you think Ma will let me go?"

Charlie looked so confident and grown up that Katie
was sure Maggie would agree.

"I think you'll do us proud," she said.  There was a
bounce to Charlie's step as he walked away; perhaps
the real wonder was that his feet touched the pavement
at all.

Edgar opened the door at Katie's approach.

"It was my hope that Mr. Mulder would rest," she said.

"He has not left the house, Mrs. Katherine.  That is a
victory in itself," he answered.   

She climbed the stairs to find Mulder in their
bathroom, fitting a new blade into his safety razor.

"I see you've taken advantage of my absence to conduct
business," she said, sternly.

"You ordered me to rest.  I'll rest more easily
knowing that DT won't be buying or selling railroads
on impulse."

"Do you really think Charlie can hold him in check?"

"Sometimes all it takes is a pertinent question. 
Charlie's a shrewd boy, and I know I can trust him."

Mulder turned on the taps, leaning heavily on the sink
as he gathered up his shaving materials.

"Go sit down.  I'll help you," Katie said.

"Honestly, you're treating me like a child."

"A child in need of a shave.  Now sit."  She indicated
one of the armchairs, and, with a sigh, he obeyed her.

She pulled the chair from the dressing table next to 
the arm chair.

"Are you sure you've done this before?" Mulder asked,
nervously.  

"I've always wanted to learn," she answered.  She knew
enough of his dry humor to understand his question as
a joke.   She worked the shaving soap into a frothy
lather and patted it onto his face.

"Skinner told me about the hired nurses, who tried to
force my signature.  I suppose it might have been a
near thing if one of them had taken a razor to me."

Katie felt sick at the thought of how easily he could
have been murdered, and with greater subtlety than a
razor to the throat.

"Mrs. Fowley was by this morning," she told him. 
"Cornelius Spender charged her with the same task, 
to acquire your signature on some documents."

"And she refused him," Mulder concluded.

"She was afraid to refuse him outright, but she
wouldn't do it."

"Katie, I've kept a secret for her, but now I must
tell you.  I'd rather betray her trust than risk
losing yours."

"She told me about her daughter, and how you helped to
reunite them."

"I'm not sorry I helped her, but I'm sorry I kept it
from you.  No more secrets."

He was silent as she whisked the lather from his face
in short, expert strokes.  She had delayed informing
him of Pendrell's misfortune, and his words pricked
her conscience.
 
"I need to tell you something, too.  The reason that
Samantha had to leave."

"A fevered lunatic makes for tedious company."

"Her husband was shot."

He gaped in surprise.

"How did it happen?" 

Katie told him what little was known, including Sean's
precarious state and the failure of the police
investigation.

"Who would do this?  Not his business partners--we're
600 miles away.  A competitor?" 

"A burglar?" Katie asked.

Mulder drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. 
When he spoke his voice was dark.

"Katie, there's a photo.  In the darkroom.  A large
brown envelope on the lowest shelf.  It isn't
labeled."

"All right," she said.

"Send that to the police in Detroit.  Let them show 
it in the factory."

Katie found the picture precisely where Mulder had
indicated and brought it back to him.  

"Who is he?" she asked.  The man in the picture did
not look like a killer.  

"That's my former assistant, Alex Krycek.  Cornelius
Spender's mercenary."

"But why?"

"To get Samantha out of the house, so he could get to
me."  He gave a pained smile.  "You must think I'm
delirious again."  

"I don't."

"Or mad."

She shook her head, somberly.

"No, Mulder.  Not you."

*********************************************************
 
Charlie Scully paced as he spoke, back and forth
across the large office, the hitch in his gait most 
noticeable when he reached the edge of the Persian carpet 
and pivoted around.

"See, Mulder, I got nothin' against school, but it
takes away from my time here.  Mr. Traut says I'm a
great help to him, says I have a memory like an
elephant.  And I feel bad, Mulder, havin' you pay 
for my schoolin' when I don't need it."

"Your continued employment here is contingent upon you
finishing your education," Mulder said firmly.

"I'm getting the best education right here.  My
arithmetic's better than DT's already.  My brother was
done when he was my age, an' Missy too.  Hey, it's
Katie, isn't it?  Is she the reason you're tellin' me I
have to go on to graduate?"

When Mulder had returned to the office, he found that
people treated him differently.  Voices were hushed,
speech was carefully formal.  But Charlie Scully was
always the same.

"Charlie, where's Russia?" Mulder asked.

"What kind of question is that?  It's far away, that's
for sure, and you'd have to cross an ocean."

"What do you know about Austria?"

"Well, kangaroos, I guess."

Mulder didn't laugh, but Charlie colored anyway.

"I understand what you're sayin', Mulder, and I know
there's a lot I have to learn, but--"

"Sit down," Mulder said.  "Maybe your ears will work
better if you stop walking in circles."

Charlie dropped into a chair across the desk.

"You were a crackerjack newsie.  Remember?"

"Oh, sure."

"You knew where your customers would be, and what
would interest them.  You knew when a big headline
would make you more sales.  You're a natural-born
businessman."

"Nothin' much to it," Charlie mumbled.

"You have a keen aptitude, but that won't substitute
for a broad education."

"How about a compromise?"  Charlie asked.

Mulder decided to end the discussion.

"If you're determined to leave school, I won't stop
you," he said.

"Thank you!"  Charlie jumped up from his chair.  "I'll
write up a letter of withdrawal to the headmaster."

"I'll see that your last paycheck is mailed to your
home."

"What?"

"Let me know if you'd like a letter of
recommendation."

Charlie's blue eyes flashed.

"So if I leave school, I lose my job?  You could have
just said so."

"I thought I had," Mulder answered, mildly.  

Charlie huffed as he stalked from the room.  

Probably the day would come when Charlie would thank
Mulder for his generosity.  Maybe on that day Mulder
would be candid enough to admit that backing Charlie's
education was not charity, but an investment.  

Walter Skinner was another recipient of Mulder's
largesse, but he knew full well that he was being
used.  Mulder had installed his former tutor into his
old office, and Skinner had accepted the position
grudgingly.  Fortunately Skinner turned out to have an
unexpected flair for finance.

Mulder was pleased to see the growing respect Skinner
commanded around the firm.  It made him wonder if he
should have spent more time cultivating his own scowl.
Skinner could stare down anyone, from DT to Morris
Fletcher, and it was only in private that he would
reveal his uncertainty.

Besides Skinner and young Charlie, there were other
men at Mulder & Traut who showed talent and integrity.
It took an effort of will for Mulder to step back and
let them exercise their abilities.  DT was content
when their efforts brought more profits, angry when
their maneuvers went awry, as if he had forgotten that
investment was always speculative.  

DT still insisted that Mulder was a genius of finance
and that no other man could do his job.  Mulder
answered coolly that if one man couldn't do it,
perhaps it took two, or three, or four.   

Mulder couldn't allow himself to regret that he hadn't
found the strength to release his hold on the reins
while his daughter was alive.  Some days any thought
of Mairead was too much to bear, but other times he
could take comfort from his memories.

DT neither liked nor understood Mulder's detachment
from the firm.  He recommended the waters at Gstaad or
a tour of the Orient for a man to regain his zest. 
Mulder told him flatly that his zest had never been
for banking.

Mulder sighed, wondering if it was any favor at all to
push Charlie toward a profession that valued wealth
and power above everything.  The pursuit of the
almighty dollar could be intoxicating.  When was the
last time Charlie had taken his bike for a spin, or
pitched a game of stickball?

Mulder pushed himself away from his desk.  He had
spent the morning at work and was determined to keep 
the afternoon for himself.  First he would stop by 
Skinner's office, but then he would be off.

Morris Fletcher jumped to his feet at Mulder's
approach.  

"Coffee, sir?"

"No, thank you."

"I'll tell Mr. Skinner you're here."

"Please."

Fletcher simpered into his 'phone and then ushered
Mulder through the door with another offer of coffee. 
Skinner glared, and Fletcher retreated.  As the door
closed, Mulder settled into a chair and Skinner
dropped his facade.

"I suppose it doesn't trouble you that I have no idea
what I'm doing," Skinner said.

"I have complete faith in you."

"I've tried to learn the business, but I think my 
decisions are no better or worse than a roll of 
the dice."

"No one can take issue with your results," Mulder
reminded him.

"I believe I've uncovered your secret.  Where Mulder &
Traut goes, others follow.  We can scarcely
fail to make money."

"Money goes to money, Skinner.  I thought everyone
knew that."

Skinner frowned, then removed his spectacles
and polished them with his handkerchief.

"What would you do, Mulder, if your analysis lead you
to one conclusion, yet your impulse was to do the
opposite?" he asked.

"I'd follow my impulse."

"Even if every logical argument told you you were
wrong?"

"Especially then," Mulder said.

"Standard Oil--"

"May it rest in pieces," Mulder interrupted.

"Perhaps a few pieces for us?"

"If you think so."

"American Tobacco Company?"

"A similar opportunity."

"I don't like it, and I can't explain why," Skinner
said.

"Then leave it alone."

"And if I'm wrong?"

"Your feelings will be right more often than not. 
Besides, I don't like American Tobacco either.  It
reminds me of Spender."

"Do you think we've seen the last of him?" Skinner
asked.

"My detective saw him board the Mauretania bound for
Hamburg.  Mrs. Fowley reports that he plans to sojourn
in the Balkans."

"Then I pity the Balkans." 

"He killed Sean Pendrell."  Mulder was certain of
this, although he hadn't been able to convince Skinner
or the police, but he continued anyway.  "The foreman
identified Krycek from the photograph, and Krycek is
nowhere to be found."

"I'm sorry about your brother-in-law.  But the fact
that Spender and Krycek are both fiends doesn't
establish their connection." 

"You've heard my suspicions, and I know you find them 
fantastic.  But Warwick Manchester is not a fanciful 
man, and I am quite sure he fears Spender too."

"You should press him for details," Skinner advised. 
"His insinuations are no more useful than DT's
riddles."

"Sir Warwick feels anything set in writing can be lost
or waylaid.  He booked passage for the spring.  It 
seems at long last he's ready to tell his secrets."

"I don't doubt that Spender is dangerous, powerful and
quite possibly insane.  But a *kingmaker,* a man who
can play with the world as if it were a chessboard?" 
Skinner shook his head.

"Do you know, he offered me the Presidency once?"

"With the Republicans standing by Taft, and Roosevelt
refusing to back him, this might be your chance,"
Skinner said, drily.

Mulder stood up and set his camera on Skinner's desk
as he put on his coat.

"Then I'd better hurry home to prepare my speech," he
said.

"Leaving me to slave away while you stroll about and
indulge your hobby," Skinner said, nodding at the
camera.

Mulder knew that Skinner had accepted the role of
financier as a personal favor.  His hope was that his
friend would come to relish the challenge.

"Aren't you enjoying it even a little?  The respect,
the ability to cast so much influence?  You were able
to effect some significant changes in our geological
holdings."

Skinner gave the smallest of smiles.

"I liked helping the miners.  And tormenting Morris
Fletcher is highly rewarding."

"You see?  We both have our hobbies."  Mulder picked
up his camera and headed for the door.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

"Are you sure you won't reconsider and come along?"
Teena Mulder asked, as she slipped on her gloves.  
"Adele Schuyler would love to see you."

Katie sincerely doubted that Mrs. Schuyler would miss
her presence at her tea party.  She smiled, and helped 
her mother-in-law draw on her wrap.  "You go on and 
have a good time."

Teena had returned from Maine a week ago.   If she'd 
been surprised to find Katie at Mulder's side, Teena
had hidden it well.  Her impeccable breeding would 
allow no sign of disapproval.  Katie could hardly blame 
Teena for her reservations.  In truth, Katie shared 
some of them.

Katie had no doubts about where she belonged.  Her
place was with Mulder, his place was with her.  But
could people from such different strata overcome the
gulf between them?  Mulder believed they could, yet 
it was rarely him, and usually herself, who had to 
stretch or shrink to fit in.

Teena left in a cloud of French perfume and false
disappointment that Katie was staying behind.  Though
she'd never tell Mulder, Katie had come to realize 
that Teena was not someone she liked very much.

Since she returned from Stone Harbor, Katie had less 
patience for the artifice of New York society.  She'd 
never felt comfortable among the wealthy.  She'd 
eventually found some acceptance and a circle of friends,
but their purposeless lives held no interest for Katie.

Katie returned to the sitting room and sat down with an 
old medical journal.  Since Mulder had recovered and gone
back to work, Katie felt rather purposeless.  She avoided 
the nursery, the wound in her heart too fresh and painful 
to enter the room.  The house ran smoothly, with or 
without her input.

Katie'd forced herself to go down to the clinic one day,
but the memories were so painful, she couldn't stay.  
Not that they needed her; with additional staff, the 
operation ran as smoothly as a finely tuned machine.

Katie flipped through her journal, trying to focus on 
an article on new approaches to treating tuberculosis.
She smiled, remembering how Shayna had once said since
she knew more than half the physicians in their orbit, 
Katie should "go be a doctor, already."

Katie had snorted with laughter at that.  "I like taking
care of people too much for that.  Doctors see patients 
for a few minutes and then they're on to something new.  
Besides, if I became a doctor, I'm afraid my head would 
swell."

Shayna had pointed out that Vincent didn't have a swelled
head and seemed to spend plenty of time with patients.  
Katie hadn't had a chance to reply because more patients
arrived at the clinic.

Katie tried to read the magazine, but the afternoon sun
drifting in the sitting room window made her drowsy and
soon she nodding into sleep.  

She woke to a kiss.  Mulder smelled of the outdoors, of
chestnuts and smoke.  He brushed the hair from her 
forehead.

"What time is it?" she asked.  Sunlight was streaming
in through the window, and Mulder was home.  Something
odd was going on.

"Half past four, Sleeping Beauty," he answered, a teasing
smile curving his lips.  

"You're home early."

"Skinner had things well in hand, so I thought I'd come
home.  The weather was so nice, I decided to walk.
Did you enjoy your nap?"

"I didn't mean to fall asleep," she said, straightening
her dress.  Mulder was still grinning at her.  "What are 
you smiling about?  You look like the cat that swallowed 
the canary."

"Such a suspicious mind, Mrs. Mulder.  Can't a man smile
at his wife?"

"I've known you too long, Mulder," she laughed.  "You're 
hiding something.  What is the big secret?"

"I have some work to do in my darkroom," he said, airily,
as he took off his suit coat and tossed it on the sofa.  
"If you're going to interrogate me, you'll have to do 
it down there."

Mulder whistled as he led the way down to the basement,
with Katie scurrying to keep up.  Every time Katie tried
to engage him with a question, he whistled louder, casting
an impish look over his shoulder.

In the red light of the darkroom, Mulder looked devilish
as he set about his alchemy.  Katie perched on a stool, 
wrinkling her nose at the acrid smell of the chemicals he 
poured into three large pans.

"Mulder," she said.  "while I'm thrilled that you're 
taking pictures again, I still don't understand all of
this silly secrecy."

Mulder submerged what appeared to be a blank sheet of
paper into the first pan filled with liquid.  A fuzzy
image took shape, but Mulder moved and her view was
blocked by his back.  

"Wait, impatient one, and all will be revealed."

Finally, Mulder moved and the image was clear, wrought 
iron railings, trees and wide paths.  

"What a pretty park," Katie said.  "Where is it?"

"Not far," he answered, with a smile in her direction.
"It's called Gramercy Park."

After a few moments, he transferred the paper into each 
of the other two pans and hung the paper on what looked
like a small clothesline.  

He took another blank sheet of paper and immersed it 
in the solution.  

"What do you think of this?" Mulder asked.  

Katie stood beside her husband and watched as a shimmery 
picture began to form.  A brick house with a delicate
filigree of ironwork around the front door and windows. 
So much smaller and simpler than the house on Fifth 
Avenue.  So much homier.

"It's beautiful," she said. 

"I thought so too.  What would you think about living
there?"

"Mulder?   Did you buy this house?"  Katie asked.  

"Well, not yet," he answered.  "I wanted to see if you
liked it."

"I do.  It's warm and graceful."

"Not a grand house, though.  I wonder if my mother
will approve."

"I suppose she'll find it small and undistinguished." 
Katie forced the words past her tightening lips.
Mulder's photo had started her dreaming again of a
place of their own.  If Mulder valued Teena's opinion
above his own, the dream would be lost.

She shivered, as she realized there was more at stake
than a house.  Samantha was 16 years old when she
threw off her parents' control.  When would Mulder
find the strength to do the same?

"Mother will find the house completely unsuitable,"
Mulder said. "It's too small for her taste, and the
neighborhood is unacceptable."

"I know you try to please her," Katie began, but
Mulder continued blithely.

"Fortunately she has a very suitable home of her own."

"Oh, Mulder."

Tears of relief pricked at her eyes, and she covered
her face with her hands, so Mulder wouldn't see them.

"Katie, what's wrong?"

She blinked back her tears and tried to smile for him,
overcome by the swift march of emotions.

"It doesn't have to be this house."   He swept away
a tear that had broken free and trailed down her cheek.  
"Don't you remember?  I'll live anywhere you want."

"A shoebox," Katie said, her voice catching in her
throat.  "Remember when you said that?"   

"A shoebox would be fine--but only if we're together."

Mulder pulled her to him, enfolding her in his arms.

"Are you still sniffling?" he asked, tilting her chin.
"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer a different
shoebox?"

"This will be our shoebox, yours and mine, and that
makes it perfect.  There's no place on earth I'd
rather be."

The End.

*******************************************

Forgive Us Our Trespasses, Epilogue - Mathew Mulder's
Story.

"What a pretty park," Rosie said, her gloved hands
gripping the black iron bars.  "Did you used to 
play here?"

"Every day.  I can get the key from the house, if you
want to see it," Mathew said.

Rosie rolled her eyes.

"You have your own park.  Of course."

"It's not *mine*.  It's for the neighborhood," Mathew
explained.

"And it's locked."

"Rosie. . . "  He touched her shoulder and she turned
to face him.  "I know you're nervous about meeting my
parents, but it's going to be OK."

"Your father is Fox Mulder," she said, her eyes
widening as she said the name.  "My father used to 
sing that old song, you know the one...'I could 
have all of Mulder's millions, but I'd be broke 
without your love.' Of course, I'm scared."

Mathew laughed and put his arms around her.  
"Grandmother Mulder hated that song.  My parents 
thought it was hilarious.  My father isn't scary, 
I promise.  Your father is twice as scary as mine."

Rosie laughed.

"He likes you, Mathew.  You should see how he was with
my other boyfriends."

"And my mother. . . "  Mathew paused.  It was
difficult to describe his mother so that she wouldn't
sound intimidating.  Her public image was of someone
demanding and determined, with no patience for
dishonesty or stupidity. In private she was much the
same, but she could also be silly and fun.  

"Your mother is Dr. Katherine Mulder.  Dr. Secare
called her the living link between the laboratory and 
the actual practice of medicine.  She revolutionized 
battlefield medicine.  She's adviser to FDR.  She 
travels around the world, touring hospitals, demanding 
to inspect prisons.  She's brilliant and fearless."

Mathew sometimes felt his mother's accomplishments as
a burden or a reproach.  She had achieved so much,
despite a medical establishment that was quick to
dismiss women as interlopers or lightweights.  

"She's afraid of snakes," he said.

Rosie gave him the look that said he was a dolt but at
least he was amusing.

"So what?" she asked.

"So, she's human.  Look, Rosie, you loved me when you
thought I was a humble medical student.  Nothing has
changed."

She surprised him with a quick kiss.

"I do love you, but everything has changed.  Your
family is rich and famous, and I'm just little Rose
Caselli from the North End of Boston," she said.

"Who is brilliant, beautiful, and soon to find her own
fame and fortune as a renowned psychologist."

"And you're just as nervous as I am.  That's why we're
freezing to death and staring at the park instead of
going to your house."

"You see?  I said you were brilliant." He took her
hand and led her down the street.  "But, Rosie, I know
my parents will love you.  I'm nervous about this." 
He tapped his hand to his chest.

"The uniform?"  She topped in her tracks.  "Mathew,
didn't you tell them you were going to enlist?"

"I, er, tried.  I told them that my country needed me,
and they both agreed.  My mother said my country
needed me to finish med school."

"But you will, right?  That's part of the program."

"I thought Dad would understand," Mathew said.  "He
and Mother didn't give a second thought to going to 
Europe during the Great War.   He put himself right
in the thick of the action taking those photographs."

"His pictures were brilliant," Rose said.   "There's
speculation that they actually shortened the war 
when President Wilson saw them."

"Dad said I had no idea what war was like, or the
suffering that could occur at home when every resource
was sent overseas.  And then. . ."  He grew silent,
remembering Dad's consternation.  For a few minutes
Mathew had feared his father might actually cry. 
"Anyway, I didn't tell them."

Rosie shook her head.

"Oh, Mathew."

He squeezed her hand.  

"It's kinder this way.  Fait accompli."

He drew her up the front steps, past the delicate 
ironwork surrounding the entrance and unlocked 
the heavy oak door.  
 
"Hello?  Anyone home?" Mathew called out as he pushed
the door open and walked into the foyer.  Footsteps 
echoed distantly from somewhere at the back of the 
house, and then a booming tenor voice.

"Matty, me boy!  'Tis a fine wind blows you home to
us."

"Oh, no," Mathew said under his breath, and Rosie
turned to him with surprise.

"My brother, Mike.  Sometimes he drinks too much," he
explained in a whisper.

Mike appeared in the foyer, and Mathew was relieved to
see he looked dapper and fresh.  

"Good to see you, Mike," Mathew said.  Mike clasped
him into an affectionate hug that was only a little
too tight, and Mathew could smell the Irish whiskey on
his breath.  They broke apart, each man taking a step
backward.

"Rosie, this is--" His introduction was interrupted by
an outburst from Mike.

"Good God, Mathew, what are you wearing?"

"It better be a United States Army lieutenant's tunic,
or those guys at the recruitment office were playing
a trick on me."

"You know your dad can get you out it.  You don't have
to do this."

"I enlisted, Michael.  I want to do my part."

"Matty, no.  We can't lose you too."

"Pull yourself together," Mathew implored him.  "I
want you to meet my fiancee."

With obvious effort, Mike composed himself.

"Where are my manners?  By all means, present me to
this lovely lady."

"Rose Caselli, I'd like to introduce my brother,
Michael."

Mike took the hand that Rose extended.

"Cousin, actually.  And I'm delighted to meet you."

"Adopted brother," Mathew said.

"Michael Murphy at your service.  I suppose Michael
Murphy Mulder would open more doors, but there's only
so much alliteration one man can handle."

Rosie laughed.

"Besides, Michael Murphy is the name of my favorite
playwright," she said.

Mathew felt his cheeks color.

"I guess I forgot to mention," he mumbled.

"Yes, the playwright.  Which of his works is your
favorite?"  

Mike was in his glory, and Mathew was worried.  His
brother was one of the kindest people he'd ever known,
but alcohol made him unpredictable.  

Rosie, meanwhile, was gushing about his plays.

"I adore them both.  'Her Majesty Maureen' is so
funny, with that cranky old lady and her boarders. 
I've seen it three times.  'A Fine Madness' is 
wonderful too, but I don't think I could bear to 
see it again.  It's just too sad."

"The orphan boy.  Yes, very sad," Mike said.

"It's a beautiful story, how he uses his pain and
isolation to become a great painter.  But there's 
so much heartache.  And it's true, money can't buy
happiness."

"It's nice, though.  Much nicer than sneaking away in
the night because you haven't got the rent."

"I wish Murphy would write some more," Rose said.

"We all wish that," said Mathew.  

"Except the cranky old lady.  She's never quite
forgiven me," Mike said, with a mischievous smirk.

Rosie's eyes lit up with recognition.

"Michael Murphy.  Well, I truly am very honored to
meet you," she said.

Michael glowed, and Mathew knew his next question
would put a damper on his triumph.

"Are Mother and Dad around?"

"They're due back from Washington around suppertime. 
I take it they didn't know you were coming home."

"I thought I'd surprise them."

Mike looked him up and down and nodded knowingly.

"I'm sure you will," he said.

"They'll have to accept it," Mathew said.

"They'll have to accept it.  And if you get killed,
they'll have to accept that too," Mike said grimly.

Rosie's hand flew to her face.

"But he'll be a doctor.  They won't put him where
people are shooting," she said.

"That's right," Mathew said, although her knew her
confidence stood on shaky ground.

He wanted to tell his brother to shut up, to stop
looking for tragedy in every shadow.  Mike was a fine
one to berate him for hurting the family, when his own
drinking was a constant source of despair.

Mathew didn't know how long he and Michael would have
stood in the foyer, eye to eye, each one filled with
things to say but holding his tongue.  It was Rosie
who broke the spell.

"It's awfully chilly out.  Do you think we could make
some coffee?" she asked.

"Splendid idea," said Mike, offering Rosie his arm as
he led the way to the kitchen.  "I like this girl,
Mathew."

"Just remember she's spoken for," Mathew said,
relieved that the tension had broken.

"Oh, do you know Jim was here a week ago," Michael
said.

"Our other brother.  His brother, my cousin," Mathew
explained.

"James Murphy Mulder.  Captain of industry and a
mighty force in building the arsenal for democracy,"
Michael said.   "Do you see what a man can accomplish
when he's not overburdened by alliteration?  He 
offered me a position at the factory.  And Uncle
Charlie's been nagging me to come in to Mulder &
Scully, so I can learn about an honest day's work."

"But what about your writing?" Rosie asked.

"My writing.  I take my pen in hand, but nothing comes."

"Writer's block," Mathew said.  "Perhaps it would help
if you took a job at the firm, or even in Detroit with
Jim.  Some fresh inspiration for you."

"I've started psychotherapy.  Aunt Kate suggested it. 
And Mulder is paying for it."

"That's great," Mathew said, trying to sound sincere.

"Oh, that's wonderful!  It's hard work, but you'll
understand everything in a new way.  You'll be free of
the chains of the past," Rosie enthused.  
 
"I need the past.  I don't want to lose it," Michael
said, very seriously.  

"You wouldn't have to lose it.  Just make your peace. 
Put it in its place.  Quiet the ghosts."  Rosie
sounded a bit flustered.

"Ghosts.  I have plenty of those," said Michael.

"Your parents.  Like the boy in your play," Rosie
said.  She sat down at the enamel-topped table and
Mike took the seat around the corner.   

"No."  Michael shook his head.  "I drew from my life,
but it wasn't an autobiography."

Rosie considered for a while.

"In the play, Stephen's aunt was a nurse instead of a
doctor," she said.

"Aunt Katie really was a nurse, before she became a
doctor.  But my father was a bum."

"So you rewrote him as a war hero," she concluded,
her voice gentle.

"Careful, Mike.  Rosie's a psychologist," Mathew
warned him.  He took the canister of coffee down from
the shelf.

"The baby who died, that was Mathew's sister, not
mine."

"Oh, Mathew."  Rosie's face twisted with sympathy. 
 
"I never knew her," he said.

"Before he was born," Michael explained.

"And I'm not in the play at all," Mathew said.  "Or
even Jimmy."

"It's fiction, not history," Michael said. 

"Maybe that's why it's hard for you to write," Rosie
mused.  "It's not autobiography, as you say, and yet
it exposes your life."

"And other people's lives.  Like that cranky Irish
landlady," Mathew said.

"Gran could write her own play.  Or we could just put
her up on a stage with a cup of tea and she'd have
plenty to say without a script," Mike said.

"Only first she'd have to serve tea to the entire
audience."

Mike and Mathew shared a laugh, but Rosie looked
serious.

"So the funny old lady from your first play was the
grandmother of the hero of your second play," she
mused.

Mathew expected his brother to object once again 
that it wasn't autobiography, but instead he agreed.

"Loosely speaking, yes," said Michael.

"Now it feels cruel to laugh at a woman who lost so
much.  Her husband, her daughter, her grand-daughter,"
Rosie said.

"Life is loss.  And Gran is as strong as his coffee,"
Mike said, jerking his head in Mathew's direction.  
"And if we wake her up from her afternoon nap, she'll 
come down here and thump us squarely with her cane."

Mathew poured a steaming mug and set it in front of Mike.

"Drink your coffee," he said.  "Strong or not."

"Make no mistake, life is loss," said Michael,
wrapping his fingers around the mug as if he was
suddenly cold.  

"The War," Rosie said.

Michael heaved a huge sigh.

"I suppose each generation finds the old tragedies a
bit boring," he said.

"We're the same generation," Mathew protested.

"We are not.  I remember the fire at the shirtwaist
factory, and how Gran had to go to a warehouse full of
bodies to identify one of her boarders.  A warehouse,
Mathew, because the morgue couldn't hold all the
bodies.  And the War, with more men called up every
month.  And then the telegraphs."

Rosie looked at Mathew, and he saw a new fear in her
eyes.

"And the Influenza, so that you were afraid to walk in
the street.  Gran begging Uncle Charlie not to go to
Mass, for fear of the crowd."

"She did?" Mathew asked.  It was almost unimaginable.

"My mother. . ."  He picked up his mug, eyes shut as
he sipped his coffee.  "Every day the wagons came to
take the bodies, stacked like firewood.  

"I'm so sorry," Rosie murmured.

"Aunt Katie was a doctor by then," he said.  "Mama was 
one of the early victims, so Jimmy and I came to live
here.  But after a few weeks, we were sent upstate to 
the lodge with Mrs. Skinner...though she was still Miss
Muir then.  I know, now, that they were trying to protect 
us from the 'flu, but I remember thinking that nobody 
wanted us."

"Oh, how sad," Rosie said, gently covering his hand
with hers.  "To lose your mother and then be sent 
away from the only family you had."

"The lodge was a wondrous place.  We swam in the lake
and hiked through the forest.  For city kids, it was
a different world.  Miss Muir was kind to us, but
we were still in exile.  The first time Walter Skinner
came to visit, I was sure he was taking us back home 
with him, but, of course, we were left behind."

"Walter Skinner?" Rose asked, her excitement overcoming
her sympathy.  "The man who wrote 'Down to the Mines, 
Singing'?"

"The very same," Michael replied.  "And a fine book it
was, too, though it became his undoing.  He was on his
way to becoming the next great American author when 
they asked him to do the screenplay for the book.  Got
seduced, right and proper, and never left Hollywood."

"This is incredible," Rose said, turning to Mathew. 
"Your cousin is a famous playwright, and Walter Skinner
is a family friend.  Who else do you have hiding around
here?  T.S. Elliot?  Ernest Hemingway?"  

"Nobody else," Mathew laughed.  

"Actually," Michael began, "Skinner worked for the Mulder 
family over the years in various capacities--everything 
from tutor to the young Fox Mulder to running the business.  
He told me once that most of 'Down to the Mines' was written 
in the Mulder mansion.  Ironic, isn't it?  A story of poor
but honest miners penned in such a palace of wealth."

"I didn't know that," Mathew said, shaking his head.  
"Mother and Dad rarely talk about the time before I 
was born."

"There's all sorts of interesting stuff in the attic,"
Michael said as he rose from his seat.  "I seem to 
remember a box of old photographs in a trunk.  You
should take a look.  And with that, I'll bid you both
adieu.  I'm off to meet some friends down the road."

Michael tipped an imaginary hat to Mathew and Rose and 
left the kitchen.  Mathew sighed and Rose glanced in 
his direction.

"Let's go on a treasure hunt," she said, taking his hand.

Rose followed Mathew through the house, up the main
staircase until they came to the narrow steps into the 
attic.  Dust motes hung in the air as light filtered 
through the windows on either end of the house.  

Mathew reached for the pull string on the single 
electric light bulb above their heads.  "Who knows
what we'll find under all this dust.  Maybe Judge
Crater is hiding up here."

"Does this work?" Rose asked, blowing dust from the
mahogany top of an old radio.

"It used to," he answered.  "Dad bought a new one
a couple of years ago, but I listened to 'The Lone 
Ranger' and 'Inner Sanctum' on that baby."

Rose turned the radio on and twisted the dial 
through static and garbled speech until she found
music.

*Jeepers, creepers....where'd ya get them peepers
Jeepers, creepers...where'd ya get those eyes*

"Not bad," she said, turning to face Mathew.  

They surveyed the contents of the attic.  Boxes, 
trunks, an old floor lamp and an elaborate English
perambulator were arrayed around the room.   

He recognized his old hobby horse, its hide seat 
showing enough wear to indicate that he wasn't the 
first Mulder to ride "Old Paint."  Mathew picked up 
a toy drum, tapping his fingers on the well worn 
leather top.  This was one toy he hadn't remembered 
seeing in the nursery when he was small.

"How beautiful," Rose said from across the room, where
she stood before an open trunk.  She held up an 
old-fashioned suit, its yellow fabric thickly 
embellished with cream braid. 

"I think I remember that dress from my parents' 
wedding photograph."

Rose regarded the garment.  "This is a pretty dress, 
but it's so simple.  I would have expected heavy satin 
and yards and yards of train."

"They didn't have a society wedding," Mathew said.
"I never thought about it, but I can't imagine my 
grandparents being pleased with Dad marrying the 
daughter of a poor Irish fisherman."  

"I wonder what they would have thought if they knew
what an important woman she would be."  She sighed
and dug deeper into the trunk.

With little cries of excitement, Rose unearthed 
several other dresses, pink chiffon and blue satin.
With a final squeal of pleasure, she held a conical
fairy princess hat aloft.  In her other hand was a
Viking helmet, complete with shiny brass horns.
Donning the princess hat, Rose crossed to Mathew
and crowned him with the Viking helmet.  

"What have you got there?" she asked, looking
down at the small, leather trunk he'd begun to 
unpack.  

"A lot of books," he said.  "Some history, a
few medical texts.   Ah, maybe this is something."

Underneath the books, he found a cigar box.  He
lifted the lid and found a stack of photographs.

"Paydirt," he said, as he flipped through the photos.
"These are old--from way before I was born.  Let's
take them downstairs where the light is better."

"And where it's warmer," Rose said, with a shiver.

"I'm sorry," Mathew said, slinging an arm around
Rose's shoulders.  The afternoon had flown and
the unheated attic had become cold.
 
They turned off the radio and descended the stairs,
the cigar box under Mathew's arm.  He led Rose to 
the library, where Mathew set about lighting a fire
in the fireplace.

"How cozy," Rose said, warming her hands at the
crackling blaze in the hearth.

"It's my favorite room."   This was where his 
parents spent their evenings, reading or listening
to the radio.  It resonated with their humor and 
intellect.

Mathew sat on the leather sofa and switched on the 
brass floor lamp.  Rose sat beside him as he opened 
the cigar box and lifted out the first photograph.

It depicted children playing stickball in the shadow 
of tenement buildings.   Their hands and faces were 
dirty, but they vibrated with excitement at the game.  
The photographer had captured them in that moment in 
their lives.  He'd captured another figure, as well:   
on the sidelines, a child leaned on a crutch, his legs 
bowed and crippled.  The boy's eyes were filled with 
longing as he watched the stickball players. 

"What an amazing job of framing," Rose said.   "It
tells a story."

"Rickets," Mathew said.    

He flipped the picture over, but nothing identified the
subjects or the artist.  Carefully laying it down, he 
held up the next picture.   He recognized the location--the 
triangular Flatiron Building.  Dwarfed by the massive 
structure, a small boy held a newspaper aloft, determination 
on his face.  

"There is something familiar about this picture.  I can't
place it, though."

"Maybe you've seen it before," Rose offered.

"I don't think so."  Mathew set the photo down, lifting
the next one with excitement.  "But this one..."

"I've seen that picture," Rose said.  "It's famous.  These
girls worked at the Triangle Shirtwaist factory.  This
was taken a few years before the fire.  I didn't realize
your father was the photographer."

"I don't think he was," Mathew replied.

He turned the photo over and then passed it to Rose.
A rectangular label was affixed to the back.

"Mathew Fox," he said.   "*Quitting Time*. Accepted for 
publication by 'The Atlantic Monthly'."

"His name is spelled the same as yours," Rose said.  "A
relative?"

"My parents never mentioned him," Mathew said.  "I always
figured I was named for Mathew Brady."

Mathew rose from the sofa and crossed to the bookshelves
that lined the opposite wall.  The books in the Mulder
family library were not for "show."  The classics vied for
space with his mother's medical texts, his father's books
on economics and business and the arts.  Mathew's hand rested 
on his favorite among the many compilations of his father's 
work.  "The Gleaning of the Harvest," Fox Mulder's celebrated
study of America during the Great Depression.  Mathew was in
one of the photographs, a small boy playing with a share-
cropper's son.  The text had been written by Melvin Frohike.
The book had won a Pulitzer prize.

Among his father's collections were a number of general
photography books.  Leafing through them, Mathew finally 
found what he was looking for.

"Listen to this, Rose.  'While his career was brief, 
Mathew Fox left a brilliant, though small body of work.  
Following in the footsteps of Jacob Riis, Fox's favorite 
subjects were slum-dwellers.  The most famous of his 
photographs depicted factory girls from the Triangle  
Shirtwaist Company'.  There are a few more pictures of 
his in this book."
 
"Mathew..." Rose said, picking through the last few
photos in the box.  "Look at this one."

She handed him the last photograph in the box.  Mathew
felt his mouth go dry as he held the picture.  

"It's my mother," he said.  With a basket of laundry on
her hip, the girl in the picture regarded him with
a steady gaze, intelligence flashing in her eyes.  He 
turned the photograph over.  This one was labeled as
the other, with the name "Mathew Fox" and the title 
of the photograph, "Girl with Basket."

"Mathew, I don't understand.  These are the original 
photographs.   They must have known him--he certainly
knew your mother.  Looking at this picture, I would 
almost think he was in love with her."  Rose smiled
and shook her head.  "How fanciful of me."

"We can ask Michael about this fellow," Mathew said.  

"Surely he'd have been too young to remember him," Rose
responded.  "You should ask your parents."
 
He looked into Rose's calm brown eyes and wished he 
could explain why asking them wasn't as easy as it would
seem.  They rarely spoke of the past, and for the most
part, Mathew recognized his parents as people who lived
their lives in the here and now.  But he'd always sensed
a deep sadness in them when it came to the time before
Mathew was born.

"They're home," he said, suddenly.  The creak of the 
front door could have equally signaled Michael's return, 
but Mathew thought it was probably his parents.

Rosie patted her hair and smoothed her skirt,
although neither appeared to need readjustment.

Soon his mother's voice echoed from the foyer:

"Michael?  Michael, we're back."  

And then his father's:

"I'd better go check on him."

Mathew heard his mother's apprehension and his
father's weariness.

"Come on," he said to Rosie, tugging her hand.  
"Let's tell them we're here."

"How do I look?" she asked.

He stopped in his tracks and faced her squarely.  
He spent long seconds eying her carefully, 
and finally he gave his verdict.

"Awful.  Hideous.  Grotesque."

"Mathew, I'm nervous enough as it is!"

"No, seriously.  I can't believe I never noticed it
before.  You're just about the ugliest girl I've 
ever seen."

"You're terrible," she huffed.

"I hope they don't faint in fright," he said, taking
her by the arm.  "My mom is little, but my dad would
be hard to carry."

He led her along, bracing himself against his own
nervousness.

"Mother!  Dad!" he called out.  "I'm home--and with 
a surprise."

"Mathew!"  His mother stood in the foyer, her face 
wreathed with a smile.  Her red hair was nearly as 
bright as he remembered it when he was small.  Only
a smattering of gray threaded through her short curls.
She was across the room in a moment, her arms circling
his middle and her face buried in his chest.  

"Sweetheart, what a wonderful surprise to find you 
home."

Looking weary, Fox Mulder shook his head at the sight of 
his uniform-clad son.   

"You did it, despite my objections," his father said
grimly.  "I thought at least you would finish medical
school."

"Dad, I will.  It's an accelerated program, so I can
get my MD and serve my country," Mathew said.

"We discussed this, son.  There are other ways to
serve your country."  

"We discussed it, and then I made my decision." 
Mathew's parents frequently forgot that he was an
adult, and he held himself tall and steady to remind
them.

"Believe me, we will discuss it further," said his
dad, but then Mother broke in.

"Mulder, we have a visitor," she said.  

All eyes turned to Rose who drew herself up and smiled. 

"Yes, of course," Mathew said, recovering his manners.
"Mother, Dad, I'd like to introduce Miss Rose Caselli."

"I can't begin to tell you how excited I am to meet
you, Mrs. Mulder...oh my goodness, I mean Dr. Mulder,"
Rose gushed, extending her hand to Kate.  If Rose was 
upset at the omission of her status in his life, she 
didn't show it.  "I've read your monograph on morale 
and the recovery from wounds in wartime.  I cited it 
in my thesis.  And Mr. Mulder...I've been so moved by 
your photographs."

"It's wonderful to meet you, Rose," Mother said, taking
Rose's hand between her own.   She glanced in Mathew's
direction before turning her eyes back to Rose. "My son
has...well, he hasn't told us anything, so why don't we 
go into the library and you can tell us all about yourself."

"I'll be along in a minute," Dad said, turning toward
Mike's room.

"He's OK," Mathew told him.  "He went out to meet some
friends."

"Oh.  Well, then, let's get acquainted in the library."

They trailed after the others.

"You'll love her, Dad.  There's no one else like her,"
Mathew whispered.

"I'm sure I will.  But I wish you hadn't kept her a
secret."

Mother and Rosie took the sofa, facing the crackling
fire.

"How did you and Mathew meet?" Mother asked.

"We met in an insane asylum," Mathew piped in.   

"The Inget Murray Psychiatric Hospital," Rosie explained.  

"Oh my God," Mother said, the color draining from her
face.

"I wasn't a patient!" Mathew protested.

"I work there for my practicum in psychology, and Mathew 
spent a month as part of his training," Rose said.

"Katie, are you all right?" Dad asked her.

"I'm fine, Mulder."  She turned back to Rosie, and
then to Mathew.  "I wonder if you encountered a
Cornelius Spender."

Dad's face fell into a scowl, and he folded his arms
across his chest.

"Old Stinkweed," Mathew said.  

Rosie pursed her lips, obviously offended.  He knew
she was a stickler about the dignity of all her
patients, even a gibbering, dribbling wretch like
Spender.

"A very sad case," she said.  "Tertiary syphilis,
with severe neurological damage.  There's nothing we
can do for him."

"I thought he was dead," Dad said.  "How long have you
known, Kate?"

"I discovered it by accident," Mother said.  "We can
talk later."

It was as if she had to remind him they weren't alone. 

"Old Stinkweed.  What a fitting nickname," Dad mused. 
Mathew thought his mother would be as annoyed by this
impertinence as Rose had been, but she surprised him.

"So many were lost, and he's still alive," she said,
bitterly.

"Maybe death was too good for him.  But you're right,
love, we'll discuss it later."

"How do you know him?  Who is he?" Mathew asked.

"Nobody you need to worry about," Dad said.  

"Who's worried?  I'm just asking a question."

"Another time," Dad said.  "Rose, do I detect the hint
of a Boston accent?"

"More than a hint, I'm afraid," she laughed.  "I've
been working on it."

"You'd better.  Otherwise you'll be Rose Muldah, of
Gramercy Pa-ak," Mathew teased.

His parents exchanged looks.

"This sounds serious," Mother said, smiling broadly. 
"Mulder, I think you should break out some champagne."

"Champagne?  You don't keep liquor in the house,"
Mathew said.

"We gave up on that.  It didn't make any difference,"
Dad said, rising from his chair.  "By all means, this 
calls for a toast."  He left to get the champagne.

"We're delighted to have you in the family," Mother
said, her hand on Rose's arm.  "I remember how
intimidating it was when I met Mulder's parents, and I
don't want you to feel that way."

Mathew's paternal grandmother was a stiff, distant
woman.  He couldn't imagine her welcoming a new
daughter-in-law with any warmth.

"Thank you, Dr. Mulder.  That means everything to me,"
Rose said.

Mother's smile broadened.

"Then maybe you should call me Kate.  And my husband
will be very pleased if you call him Mulder."

"Tell me, how did you meet?  I bet you have a story as
good as ours," Rose said.

"It's quite a story, all right," Mother said.  "But
really, I'd rather hear more about you."

"Did Mathew Fox introduce you?" Mathew asked,
suddenly.

"Mathew Fox!  How do you know about him?" Mother
asked.

"We found his old photo of you.  Was he a friend of
Dad's?  Whatever happened to him?" Mathew asked.

"The way his name is spelled. . . . We wondered if
Mathew was named for him," Rose added.

Dad came back with the champagne and the glasses.  

"Let's pop the cork," he said, proceeding to do just
that.  Mathew passed around the glasses and Dad
poured.

"To Rose and Mathew," Dad said.

"May their love be as lasting as ours," Mother added.

"Thank you.  We couldn't ask for anything better,"
Rose said.

"Down the hatch," Mathew quipped.  They touched
glasses and drank.

"Mulder, Mathew wanted to ask us something," Mother
said.

Dad gave an exaggerated sigh and pulled out his
wallet.

"How much?" he asked, gruffly.  Mother and Rose both
laughed.

"The kids wanted to know about Mathew Fox," Mother
said.

Dad put his wallet back in his pocket.

"Mathew Fox.  Remember him?"

"How could I forget?  He was the handsomest man I've
ever seen," Mother said.

"But that wasn't how he won your heart."

Mother raised an eyebrow.  "It didn't hurt."

"Oh, brother," Mathew said.  "Sorry, Rose.  I guess
they're just too old and senile to give us a straight
answer."

"Mathew!  That's no way to talk about your parents," 
Rose said.

"You want to know about Mathew Fox?  You'd better sit
down," Dad said.

"Yes, you might as well get comfortable," Mom agreed. 
"It's a long story . . . ."

End Epilogue  

Thank you, Dear Reader, for hanging on to the end of 
this long journey and the epilogue.  Whenever I read an
epic historical AU, I always wondered what  happened after
the story was over--after we left the characters.  When
I planned this story, I felt it was important to wrap 
things up so the reader knew how things turned out for 
Mulder and for Katie.  So, now you know what happened 
to them and to Skinner and Stacy Muir, Missy and her
family, Sean Pendrell, Cornelius Spender, Margaret Scully, 
and Charlie.

But I ran out of places to fit updates, so a few of
characters didn't make the epilogue.  I'll give you some
freebies:

Warwick Miles Manchester was unable to meet with Fox 
Mulder in the spring of 1911.  Sir Warwick was among
the brave men who stood on the deck of the Titanic 
singing hymns as the ship disappeared into the dark
water. 

Izzy Berkowitz created a popular, yet gory comic book 
series.  His Great Mutato horrified parents and educators, 
but children were delighted and clamored for more comics,
bringing Izzy a great deal of success. 

The child that Diana Fowley gave up for adoption, Louise 
Grace (Gracie O'Connor), became a great movie 
actress, her career one of the few that made the leap 
from silent pictures to the talkies.

So, what do you think happened to Diana Fowley?  How about
Morris Fletcher?  Shayna Berkowitz?  Vincent Vitigliano?  
Kevin Kryder?  Sheila Fontaine?  Langly and Byers? 
Come on, I bet you guys have ideas for what you think 
(or wish) happened to them.