what is e point of a nipple ring?

Question

i noe piercings are nice.but nipple rings,show?

Answer 1

i have heard it makes the nipples fore sensitive for being played with. but I dont quite get it. And please spell check before you ask, this barely makes sense.

Answer 2

well you say nose rings have a reason, well whats that then? I spose it depends on what YOU like about the pearcing, is it because it can be seen? or is it because it's secret? think about it?

Answer 3

there is no point to any piercing. they dont serve a purpose. that is why i have them.

Answer 4

what is the point of piercing ????

Answer 5

Subj: Ring of Sorrows
Date: 8/2/99 12:17:10 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Doreen Gregoire
This story very slightly overlaps the very first DS story I ever posted, "Emeralds". It also incorporates a couple of ideas I came up with in another short story, "Raspberry Wine".


As usual, Dark Shadows and its characters are the property of Dan Curtis Productions Inc. and any other entity that has a legal claim to them. They're not mine, but this story is. This is a work of fan fiction. No money will be made from this and no copyright infringement is intended. Archive this where you like, but please keep my name and this disclaimer with it.

Sorry, people. This is rated "R". If you’re under 18 or are offended by sex between married people, please go read something else. ;-)

Oh yeah. One more thing, then I’ll shut up so you can read the story. I’m assuming that Willie and Julia have, at some point in the past, nagged, badgered and cajoled Barnabas into "modernizing" the Old House with plumbing and electricity. 'Kay?

CHAPTER 1

Lahaina, Maui

Late Spring, 1972

Four people stood on a secluded beach. The waves washed gently against the black sand and sparkled in the late afternoon sun. Far off could be heard the roar of a waterfall as it cascaded down a densely wooded cliff. Gulls and seabirds wheeled overhead, the only other witnesses besides the justice of the peace and his wife to the ceremony taking place.

"With this ring, I thee wed, and all my worldly goods I thee endow."

Barnabas slipped the ornate gold and diamond filigree ring on Julia’s third finger, next to the emerald that she now wore on the middle finger of her left hand.

"This ring that was my mother’s I now give to you," he continued. His voice was deep with emotion, and his eyes, so full of love and joy, never left Julia’s face. "The diamonds are a symbol of my eternal and everlasting love for you. The ring itself symbolizes the circle of my arms, wherein you shall always find a haven of protection and love."

At the prompt from the justice of the peace, Julia removed a simple gold band from a pocket of her white linen suit and held Barnabas’ hand as she placed the ring on his finger.

"With this ring I thee wed, and all my worldly goods I thee endow." She repeated the time-honoured words, then added her own. "Barnabas," she said, her voice rough with unshed tears of happiness, "until I met you, my life was empty, but I didn’t know it. You’ve given me love and joy, and I’ll love you always. The centre of the ring is the hole in my heart that I didn’t know was there until you filled it."

As the simple ceremony ended, Barnabas drew his new wife to him and kissed her deeply.

However, there was one more witness, unseen and secret, who observed the wedding. Ice-blue eyes watched with hatred through a smoky crystal orb while flames writhed about her.

"Naomi’s ring brought her no joy and her children died before they could bear life, including he whom you now call husband. Enjoy your honeymoon while you may, Julia Collins," she spat, "for you will find new life will bring not happiness but despair."

The watcher laughed mirthlessly as the image in the grey crystal grew darker and darker until it disappeared into the depths of the orb.

CHAPTER 2 - Rated "R"

Bangkok

Early 1973

Bangkok shimmered in the pre-rainy season heat. The oppressive sun beat down on the city, partially obscuring the many temples, monuments and statues in a blanket of haze and smog. Exacerbated by the heat, the stench arising from the canals and markets created its own miasma. The constant din from the traffic on both the waterways and the crowded motorways beside them only added to the discomfort.

The long-tailed boat threaded its way carefully through the throngs of craft of all kinds crowding the canal, or klong, as Bangkok’s numerous waterways were called. The pilot stood in the stern, hand on the tiller, calling out occasional imprecations and curses in Thai as other boats blocked his way. Sometimes their progress would be halted altogether, and an opportunistic vendor in a neighbouring boat would wave to attract the attention of the couple sitting in the middle of the long-tailed boat, holding up his or her wares, extolling their virtues in Thai, and when that wasn’t responded to, in broken English. At this the pilot of the long-tailed boat would redouble his railing at the owners of the other boats around him, his arms waving angrily and attempting to drive the vendors away from his charges.

Barnabas and Julia Collins, the couple in question, paid little attention to the vendors, other than in passing interest. Their heads close together, arms about each other despite the oppressive heat of the pre-rainy season, they discussed the sights around them in words pitched low so that only they could hear.

The pilot maneuvered his boat up to a pier attached to a large hotel and helped the couple alight. Barnabas paid the pilot and included a handsome tip, upon which the pilot bowed effusively and then returned his boat to the throngs of water traffic.

Inside the air-conditioned hotel room, Julia stripped off her light jacket with relief and collapsed on the bed.

"Remind me of this whenever I complain about the winters in Maine," she moaned, her eyes shut as she lay directly under the ceiling fan and enjoyed the cool air as it was being moved about the room.

Barnabas chuckled. "And spoil your fun? What’s there to talk about in winter *but* the weather? I would much rather remind you of more pleasant endeavours."

She heard him rattling glassware in the bathroom, then felt his weight on the other side of the bed. She groaned in pleasure as she felt his lips on hers and reached for him, but he was abruptly gone.

She gasped in surprise when an icy-cold cloth was placed on her forehead, covering her eyes so she couldn’t open them even if she’d wanted to. Of course, she knew she could remove it at any time, but she trusted her husband implicitly, and waited to see what he had planned.

She felt his hands unbuttoning her sleeveless sun dress and sliding it off her shoulders. Again she gasped in surprise when what felt like an ice cube was run lightly over her skin, between her breasts, tickled her nipples, and down her flat stomach. Next she felt him kissing the trail his ice cube had left, until she was writhing under his ministrations. She opened her mouth to beg him to –she wasn’t sure what – but he silenced her with another kiss.

"Be still," he commanded her gently.

Julia nodded mutely and bit her lip.

He slid her panties off her hips, and she heard the whisper of the silk as the garment was tossed carelessly to the floor.

She heard him take a drink. A drink? she wondered. Why –

But then she found out as his hands parted her thighs, and his tongue, cold from the icy drink he had taken, came to rest on her flesh. She called out his name as she climaxed from the contrast of his cold tongue on her flesh, still hot from the heat outside.

Eventually she reciprocated, doing things with an ice cube that Barnabas hadn’t thought of before. And at last, cooled off by their play with the ice, they joined together in love’s ancient dance. Barnabas entered her with a slow reverence. The love he felt was overwhelming – how could he possibly explain it, except to show her with his hands and his body?

They fell asleep in each other's arms, exhausted and satiated. As Julia slept, a dream slowly began to take form.

She was in a dark tunnel, and it was hot, so very hot. Ahead there was a reddish glow and she stumbled in the darkness to get to it, but her feet were sluggish, as if weighed down by mud. As she gradually drew nearer, she saw a figure in a diaphanous white dress. The light behind the figure made the dress almost transparent, and Julia could discern a woman’s body in silhouette.

"You have created a life this night," the woman accused in a voice Julia would never forget.

"Angelique!" she said in disgust. "Why can’t you just accept the fact that Barnabas will *never* be yours?"

"You have taken away that which was mine," the witch replied, "and created life where once there was only death. But while you wear the ring that is so precious to you, the knowledge of this life will bring you only fear and despair."

Julia shivered at Angelique’s words. She started to protest, but Angelique cut her off.

"You shall not remember this dream, nor the reason for it. The new life in you will continue to grow, and as it grows so will your awareness of it, and your fear of it as well." The witch waved her hand in an intricate gesture. "Return to your husband," she said with a sneer. "And enjoy your happiness while you may. For ahead of you lies only despair."

Julia awoke with a scream on her lips and her heart pounding as if it would burst. She sat up and drew her knees up to her chest.

"Julia?" Barnabas asked, suddenly alert. "What is it?"

"I don’t know," she replied. "A nightmare, I think, but I can’t remember it now." She absently fingered her filigree wedding ring, moving it around and around her finger. "All I can remember feeling is as if something bad is going to happen, and that I was so frightened."

Barnabas sat up and drew her into his arms until her breathing slowed. Thinking she had fallen asleep again, he laid her back down in the bed and fitted himself to her body, his arm protectively about her waist, as if in this simplest of gestures he could fend off the dangers she had sensed.

He was almost asleep himself when Julia stirred.

"Barnabas?"

"Hmm?" he asked sleepily.

"I think I’d like to go home."

CHAPTER 3

Collinwood

Spring, 1973

Julia lay stiffly in bed, willing the feeling away. She gritted her teeth and clenched her fists as another wave of nausea overtook her, and closed her eyes in misery. Her stomach heaved again, and this time there was no denying it. She got out of bed as quietly as she could so as not to disturb her husband sleeping beside her, but finally had no choice but to make an undignified rush to the bathroom, where she dropped to her knees and bent, retching, over the toilet bowl.

Several minutes later she stumbled back into the bedroom and eased herself carefully into bed. As she lowered herself gingerly to her pillow, she could not quite suppress the groan that escaped her lips.

Beside her, Barnabas stirred. "Julia?" he asked sleepily. "Are you all right?"

She forced a reassurance into her voice she didn’t feel. "I’m fine," she replied. She turned to him and slipped an arm around his waist. "Go back to sleep."

He turned over to face her and pulled her close, kissing her forehead. Unfortunately, the motion caused Julia’s stomach to rebel again, and she beat a hasty retreat back to the bathroom.

She was back in position, heaving up what her empty stomach insisted was there, when she felt him place one hand on her forehead and the other about her waist in silent support. When she was finished, he put a cool cloth to her forehead and held her until her shuddering ceased.

"Now will you tell me what’s wrong?" He put an arm around her shoulders, but she shrugged it off.

"I told you, nothing’s wrong. I’m fine." She made a move to the shower, but he stepped in front of her, cutting her off. He put his hands on her shoulders and made her face him. When she refused to meet his eyes, he gently tilted her face to him.

"Julia, if you’re ill –"

She would have pulled away again, but his hand on her shoulder held her in place. "I am NOT ill. There is nothing wrong with me. Now PLEASE," she managed to push past him to the shower, "just leave me alone so I can shower in peace."

He stood aside and let her go. She flung the curtain closed, blocking off her view of his puzzled face.

He waited until she was out of the shower and drying herself slowly with a big, fluffy towel. He took it from her and gently dried her back, then draped it about her shoulders, noting as he did so the unusual pallor of her complexion and the pale shadows under her eyes. She stood unmoving under his ministrations, and when he was moved to draw her to him in a silent hug, jerked quickly away.

He followed her back to the bedroom. "Have I done something wrong?" he asked.

She sighed. "No, Barnabas, you’ve done nothing wrong." She opened one of the twin wardrobes that dominated the large, bright bedroom and started rummaging through it.

"Then why are you acting like this? You look and act as if you’re sick, you push me away. Please, tell me what’s wrong."

She whirled to face him. "Will you leave me alone!" Her voice dropped to a hiss. "I don’t need your questions! Just – stop badgering me!"

As she turned back to the wardrobe, she failed to see the hurt, bewildered look on his face.

* * * * *

As he served breakfast that morning, Willie could not help but notice the subtle signs of discord between his employers. Since they had returned from their trip to Bangkok two months ago, Barnabas and Julia had acted like every newlywed couple he had ever heard about. Willie would frequently come into a room to clean or to ask if they wanted anything, only to find them pulling apart from an embrace, looking flushed and happier than he had ever seen them before their marriage. There would be secret glances and lingering touches that they thought he couldn’t see, and whispered conversations that would suddenly change to normal discussions when he entered the room. He had heard someone in town use the phrase "glued at the hip" to describe a couple of teenagers passing on the street, and he decided that the term fit Barnabas and Julia Collins to a "T".

Today, however, there were no exchanged looks or hands held under the table. Julia pushed her eggs around her plate with her fork and barely nibbled at a dry piece of toast. Barnabas kept his nose buried in the morning paper and responded to Willie’s questions about more coffee and toast with a non-committal grunt.

Willie wracked his brain, trying to think of something, anything, to break the tension between these two, but could think of nothing that could help.

* * * * *

A day later, Willie was washing dishes in the kitchen, musing over his employers’ strange behaviour, when there was a knock at the door. Drying his hands on a towel, he opened it to discover Quentin leaning casually against the doorpost.

"Hey, Willie, how’s it going?" he asked as Willie stood aside to let him in.

"Oh, boy, Quentin, am I ever glad to see you." Willie was almost effusive in his relief to see the other man.

"Really? What’s up?"

"It’s Barnabas an’ Julia. They’ve been actin’ real weird."

"Oh? How?" He followed Willie back into the kitchen and pulled out a chair at the table and slouched into it. His long legs were in Willie’s way, but Willie was so distracted that he barely noticed, just stepped over as the necessity arose.

"It’s like they had this big fight or somethin’. You seen how they was before, right? Like newlyweds is supposed to be?" At Quentin’s affirmative nod he continued. "Well, the past coupla days, they ain’t even speakin’ to each other. Julia has that look – you know, when she raises her chin and just glares and dares ya to say anything? And Barnabas, well, he just looks like a dog that had its favourite bone taken away and don’t know why." He hung the dish towel on a bar over the sink and turned to lean against the counter. "I’m telling ya, I just don’t know what to do with them two. The cold from the cold shoulders they’re givin’ each other’s enough to turn summer to winter."

Quentin chuckled. "Well, well. I didn’t expect the bloom to be off the rose quite *that* fast." He paused for a moment to think. "They spend a lot of time together, don’t they?"

Willie’s nod wasn’t contained just to his head. It also encompassed his upper body as well. "Practically 24-7. Only time they’ve been apart was when Julia had some emergency or other back at Wyndcliffe. Most other times, you hardly ever see one without the other." He shook his head slightly. "Well, at least until two days ago, anyway."

Quentin rose to his feet. "Where is Barnabas, anyway?"

"Went down to the shipyard a few hours ago." Willie eyed Quentin speculatively. "You’ve got a plan, don’t ya?"

Quentin clapped Willie on the back as he left the kitchen. "Let’s just say my cousin needs a little man-to-man talk."

* * * * *

Quentin found Barnabas some hours later in the Blue Whale, staring moodily into a three-quarters full glass of what looked like bourbon. he wondered to himself as he pulled a chair up to the table backwards and straddled it, leaning his arms against the back.

"Trouble in paradise so soon, cousin?" he asked lightly.

"Quentin." The word was a mere acknowledgement of the other man’s presence, uttered in a voice something like a growl.

Quentin ordered a beer from the waitress. He regarded his cousin silently for a few minutes until the waitress returned and he paid her, adding on a generous tip as well.

"Care to talk about it?" he asked after she left.

"No."

Quentin sighed. "Look, Barnabas. You and Julia have been spending a lot of time together. Maybe you just need some time apart – say a weekend?"

Barnabas looked up, curious in spite of himself. "What are you talking about, Quentin?"

"Just this. I have a friend who has a cabin on a lake not far from the Quebec border. He’s always telling me I can borrow it any time I like. I haven’t been fishing in years, and I’ll bet you haven’t either. Why don’t you come with me?"

Barnabas was momentarily intrigued, but shook his head in regret. "I couldn’t possibly. We’re just starting a new yacht, the designer requires my attention and –"

"Come on, Barnabas, it’s the *weekend*. The shipyard’s closed and you’re making excuses. It’ll do you good. When’s the last time you kicked back and really enjoyed yourself?"

"We’ve only just returned from an extended voyage, which I enjoyed immensely. Why should I need more time away?" Barnabas asked, slightly puzzled.

"You were with *Julia*, that’s why." Quentin paused to take a sip of his beer, leaving Barnabas time to mull this over. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet and serious. "Look, over the last few years you and Julia have saved this family from any number of disasters, supernatural beings and curses. You’ve frequently been living in each others’ back pockets, in different times, with no breathing room for yourselves. Sure, you became best friends, then married because of the relationship you established. But you, Barnabas, need to get away and just do ‘guy’ stuff. Just be Barnabas, without the excess baggage and stress – not that I’m saying Julia’s baggage," he amended hastily at Barnabas’ sudden glare, "but you know what I mean. And frankly, I could use the time away myself." He turned on his "best" smile. "What do you say?"

Barnabas laughed. He knew that smile all too well. "All right. You have yourself a fishing partner. When do we leave?"

* * * * *

That evening, Barnabas expected Julia to offer at least a token resistance to his prospective fishing trip. Instead he was met with a distracted shrug as she was preparing for dinner. She gave her short red hair a cursory swipe with a brush, which she then placed carefully back on the vanity. "Fishing?" she said vaguely into the mirror. "That sounds like a good idea, Barnabas. You and Quentin should get away for awhile."

He tried to get a good view of her in the tiny vanity mirror, but the angle was wrong. Stepping closer, he gently turned her around to face him. "Julia, you’re so pale. Are you sure you aren’t ill? I could postpone my trip –"

The little warmth that was in her voice suddenly chilled by several degrees. Narrowing her eyes, she glared up at him. "Why do you keep insisting I must be sick? Stop treating me like an invalid and go on your trip! I’ll be fine." She turned from him and stalked out of the bedroom and downstairs, a puzzled and worried Barnabas following in her wake.

Dinner was lasagna. Willie had gotten overly enthusiastic with the garlic, and the odour wafted through the whole downstairs, just about blasting Julia in the face as she opened the stained glass French doors into the dining room. She turned suddenly and headed for the water closet across the hall from the kitchen, her face a couple of shades paler than it had been before.

Barnabas made a move to follow her, but Willie barred his way with an outstretched arm. "Leave her, Barnabas," he said quietly. "I don’t think she wants ya right now."

A few minutes later, Julia returned to the dining room, noticeably paler, but with the same determined, stubborn air she had carried about her all week.

When Willie noticed she took only salad and a dry piece of Italian bread, he urged the lasagna on her. "C’mon, Julia. I know you love lasagna. How ‘bout a little piece?"

Julia shook her head, visibly gulping down a wave of nausea. "No, thank-you, Willie. This will be fine." She pushed a few leaves of lettuce around on her plate and nibbled on the bread without any real enthusiasm.

Across the table, Barnabas and Willie exchanged worried looks.

CHAPTER 4

Julia heaved a sigh of relief as she watched Quentin’s borrowed Bronco disappear down the driveway and around the bend, until it was at last hidden from view by the huge old trees that lined the drive. Quentin had arrived early (for him) that morning. There’d been some good-natured kidding between him and Barnabas, especially when Barnabas offered to drive them in the Rolls. Patiently, Quentin explained that one just did not take a Rolls Royce to a rustic cabin by a lake in the middle of nowhere, and that he’d borrowed the Bronco just for this trip. He’d raised his eyebrows in feigned shock when he saw Barnabas clad in blue jeans and a red plaid shirt, but still managing to look his usual immaculate self by wearing a tan corduroy sports jacket as well.

At last they’d gotten all their gear and luggage loaded. She wondered if they really needed all that just for two days, especially when they were hoping to catch their own meals. But then, knowing the two who where going, she revised that thought. Maybe they’d need it after all.

As Quentin busied himself with closing and locking the back door of the Bronco, Barnabas walked back over to where she was watching from the front steps. He reached for her hesitantly, and seemed relieved when she went willingly into his embrace. He kissed her deeply then held her close for several seconds, simply breathing in her fragrance. "Take care of yourself," he murmured into her ear, "and know that I love you."

She tightened her arms around him, then pulled back. He hesitated again, this time seeming reluctant to leave her, and he held her hands to prevent her moving away. Seeing this, she smiled. "Go! I’ll be fine. Really." She withdrew her hands and gave him a light shove towards the steps.

And now they were gone. She twiddled with her ring, then noticed what she was doing and made herself stop. This really was starting to develop into a most annoying habit.

She closed the door behind her and wandered aimlessly away from the driveway, around the back of the house, past the stable building that had been converted into a garage, and up the hill. She stopped under the huge, gnarled old oak tree that stood sentinel over the remains of nine small wooden crosses. The names were no longer legible, having been worn away by the salty caresses of two centuries’ worth of sea winds. But she knew them from Barnabas' stories of his childhood.

Nine children. All dead before they'd reached their tenth birthdays. She shivered despite the warmth of the day. Pulling her sweater closer around her, she stuffed her hands in its pockets and stared out at the sea, a dull jade green under a leaden sky. A wind had come up, blowing the sea into waves crowned by frothy whitecaps.

A suitable setting, considering the mood she was in, she mused. She thought back on the way she'd treated Barnabas over the past few days with regret. She tried to think of what had caused her irritable behaviour, and could think of nothing. Sure, she'd been nauseous the past couple of mornings, but that could be attributable to any number of things – Willie's cooking, something in the well-water, or even a new flu bug.

But as she stared out past the house she shared with her husband, past the cliff known as "Widows Hill", her stomach twisted, and she realized her palms were sweaty. She shook her head, trying to rid herself of the sudden anxiety that had sprung up without warning. She caught a glimpse of a cross out of the corner of her eye, and suddenly, more than anything in the world, she wanted to be back in the house, away from the graves and death. A crow swooped down from the oak, landed on one of the graves, and hopped towards her. She uttered a small cry of fear and ran back down the hill.

She slammed the kitchen door and leaned on it, her chest heaving as she gulped in air in an attempt to calm her still quivering stomach. With a trembling hand she reached up and drew the antique cast iron bolt securely into place.

"Julia?"

At the sound of Willie's voice coming from somewhere in the pantry, she jumped.

He emerged to see her, still leaning against the door.

"You okay?" he asked in concern. "You're kinda pale." He got a glass from the cupboard and poured her some water from the pitcher that was always kept in the refrigerator, and offered it to her. "Maybe you should sit down."

She nodded mutely and sat in the chair he pulled out for her, then picked up the glass with trembling fingers and sipped at the water.

"What happened?" Willie asked. "You looked like you was scared or somethin'."

Julia drew a deep breath and placed the glass back on the table. She pasted a smile on her face that she hoped wouldn't look *too* artificial.

"I'm fine, Willie," she said, marveling that she could control the tremors she was sure Willie could hear.

"But you didn't look fine," Willie persisted. "You looked like –"

"I said I'm fine, Willie," Julia snapped. "I just walked a little further than I'd intended, and wanted to be back before the storm hit."

Willie looked out the kitchen window. "Storm?" he asked, pulling aside the curtains so she could see the blue sky. "There ain't gonna be no storm. The weather man said it was gonna be sunny all weekend."

Julia stared in shock at the blue sky. "But it was cloudy just a few minutes ago," she said uncertainly. "The wind was strong enough to stir up whitecaps on the water."

"Couldn't a been," Willie told her. He unlatched the back door and stood on the back porch. "Look at them trees. There's not a leaf stirrin'."

Julia had followed Willie to the back door, but backed away when she saw for herself the calm blue ocean and the still grasses and trees. She gulped and ran unsteadily from the room. Willie heard the door to the water closet slam shut.

He shook his head and sighed in frustration. He didn't like what he'd just seen. Julia's behaviour worried him. If only Barnabas hadn't gone away. Julia needed someone with her that she could trust.

He stared unseeingly at the small vase of pansies that sat on the kitchen table while he thought. Then he snapped his fingers and reached for the phone.

CHAPTER 5

Quentin drove for three hours and then turned off the highway onto a narrow dirt road. The road twisted and curved between pines and birches without seeming to lead to anything more than more trees and deep ruts. After another half-hour of being jostled and thrown about, and watching the seemingly endless forest crawl past the windows of the Bronco, Barnabas turned to Quentin.

"Are you sure you know where you're going?" he asked dubiously.

"Positive," the younger man assured him. "The camp can't be far now."

And sure enough, five minutes later the Bronco emerged into a clearing. A crudely lettered wooden sign tacked onto the skeletal remains of a spruce tree proclaimed, "Bienvenue! Welcome to Lac Paradis!" Beyond the dead tree, several ramshackle cabins clustered together amongst a healthy growth of horsetail ferns as if seeking protection from the dense forest and the lake that they could just barely glimpse through the trees.

Barnabas snorted. "Paradise? It seems to have been sadly neglected."

"Nah, don't worry about it. My friend assured me that this lake has the biggest rainbow trout in the area." He turned off the ignition and stepped out of the truck.

"Eh, messieurs!" a voice called from one of the cabins. Turning, they saw an old man come hobbling towards them.

"You must be the caretaker," Quentin said to him.

"Bien sûr! I am called Albini LaRoche," the man announced in a thick French accent. "What I can do to 'elp you?"

"We're looking for Mike LeBlanc's cabin," Quentin told him. "Do you know where we can find it?"

"Mike LeBlanc?" LaRoche mused. "LeBlanc – oh, oui! Michel LeBlanc! 'E 'as number t'ree – over dat way." He pointed to a cabin standing forlornly by itself down the path towards the lake.

Quentin stared at it. "That's it? You're sure there's no other LeBlanc cabin in the district?"

LaRoche shook his head. "Non, monsieur. I 'ave lived 'ere t'irty years. I know ev'ry body who 'as a cabin or camp. C'est la seul cabine LeBlanc."

"Merçi beaucoup, Monsieur LaRoche." Barnabas thanked LaRoche then took Quentin's arm and steered him back towards the Bronco.

"Surely you're not seriously contemplating staying *here*?" Barnabas demanded in an undertone.

"We're here now. Why leave?" Quentin shrugged his arm out of Barnabas' grasp. "Besides, Mike swore this place has great fishing."

Barnabas stared almost longingly back down the road. "Maybe we should return to Collinsport," he said softly. "Julia has been acting most strangely lately. Perhaps she needs me."

"Ha!" Quentin slapped Barnabas on the shoulder. "You lived in the old house for – what, a couple of months? – while Willie worked on renovating it? And up to last year you *still* didn't have indoor plumbing until Willie threatened to quit. And now you're quibbling about a couple of days beside a lake enjoying nature's bounty?" He started steering Barnabas towards Number 3. "Relax and enjoy the weekend."

If Number 3 looked forlorn on the outside, on the inside it was positively dismal. The cabin consisted of two rooms – a living room/dining room/kitchen, and one bedroom. The rooms were finished with cheap plywood paneling that had warped and curled in the dampness. Barnabas sniffed and could detect the scents of mildew, dust, and mice. The main room had a sofa bed whose springs were starting to poke through the thin upholstery. There was a wobbly-looking table with three mismatched chairs that looked even more fragile than the table. In a corner huddled a propane-powered combination hotplate and refrigerator.

The bedroom contained a rusty iron bed with a thin, ancient-looking mattress. Barnabas peeked through the torn and faded curtains of the bedroom window and spied an outhouse a short distance further down the trail. He opened the window to air out the room, but quickly closed it again when the aroma from the outhouse, blown by the breeze from the lake, drifted into the room.

"Hey, Barnabas!" Quentin yelled from the main room. "Why don't we go down and check out the –"

He was interrupted by a knock at the door. Barnabas emerged from the bedroom as Quentin opened the door on a beaming LaRoche. A woman who looked at least as elderly as he stood slightly behind him, smiling a gap-toothed grin.

"Monsieur LaRoche!" Quentin greeted the caretaker. "What can we do for you?"

The caretaker motioned the woman forward. "Dis is my wife, Jeanne d'Arc LaRoche. We know you young men Рlotta times you don' like to cook. She make da bes' tourtierre and baked beans outside Qu̩bec."

Barnabas nodded. "And how much will you charge us for the service, Madame LaRoche?"

Madame LaRoche continued to grin, nodding her head as she did so.

"Jeanne d'Arc, she no speak English," they were informed.

Barnabas re-addressed himself to Madame LaRoche, this time in French. She replied with a rapid-fire reply that left Quentin, whose French had been picked up mainly on the streets of Paris, totally lost.

"Merçi, Madame. Vous êtes très gentille, mais nous ferrons nôtre cuisine nous-mêmes." Barnabas bowed to the couple, then took Madame LaRoche's hand and kissed it lightly. She giggled like a schoolgirl. They could still hear her, even after the door was closed.

"What was that all about?" Quentin asked.

"Madame LaRoche was willing to do us the great favour of cooking all our meals, for the small fee of $20. Per meal. I told her that she was very kind, but that we would do all our own cooking."

"From what Mike told me he pays for the caretaking service, you'd think they'd *give* us the meals." He shrugged. "Whatever. Guess you can't blame them for trying to make an extra buck or two." Quentin headed back outside to bring in their gear.

An hour later they had unpacked and headed down the narrow, muddy pathway that twined and twisted to avoid swampy areas of bulrushes, devil's club and yet more horsetail ferns. The air was humid and warm, especially for this time of the year. They were almost instantly surrounded by a thick cloud of mosquitoes and black flies that followed them all the way down to the lake.

The lake was at first almost indistinguishable from the shoreline. Marsh grass grew thickly to about fifty feet from the shore. And further out, it seemed to be choked with some kind of lake weed.

"Well, looks like the boat is out of the question," Quentin stated, staring wistfully out at the offending weeds. "Those weeds would just choke the engine."

"Engine!" Barnabas snorted. "What do you need an engine for? The sound would merely frighten the fish. " He spotted a rickety-looking structure further along the lakeside trail. "That looks like a dock over there. Perhaps it's clearer there and we can row your boat."

The dock was missing several boards and shook alarmingly when they stepped onto it. Its one redeeming feature was that it went out far enough into the weed-choked lake to allow them to escape the cloud of blood-seeking insects that had been plaguing them for the past several minutes.

Barnabas lifted an eyebrow. "Perhaps your rowboat comes equipped with a pole so we can push it along?" he said sarcastically as he stared out at the thick growth of weeds that clustered around the dock.

* * * * *

They eventually found a wide creek that cascaded down from the mountain, and returned with their fishing gear.

Quentin had donned a fishing vest, generously studded with a menagerie of flies and lures. He quickly assembled the three pieces of his rod – the most up-to-date graphite rod available. He was just pulling on his hip waders when he happened to glance over at Barnabas. He stared in frank astonishment.

Barnabas opened a wooden case and pulled out a section of wooden rod, then another. And another. And yet another. By the time he was finished, he had a wooden pole that was easily twenty-five feet long. He reached into his jacket pocket for a small leather case and extracted a hand-tied fly and started fastening it to the line. Finally, after watching all this, Quentin could keep quiet no longer.

"Barnabas," he said with a touch of exasperation, "what the hell is that?"

Puzzled, the older man paused in his actions. "What is what?"

Quentin pointed to the enormously long rod which, when laid out on the ground, seemed even longer than its twenty-five feet. "That."

Barnabas drew himself up, affronted. "This is my father's fishing rod. He had it custom-made by the finest craftsmen in England. He caught some of the finest brown and rainbow trout in the Territory with it." He caught a glimpse of Quentin's modern fly-fishing rod. "Surely you don't expect to catch a fish with that little thing?"

Quentin finished pulling on his hip waders. "Watch me."

An informal "fishing duel" was on. Quentin strode clumsily over to the creek and clambered down the slippery bank, almost losing his balance in the fast-moving water when he caught the tip of his boot on a moss-covered rock. He remained upright, however, and stood in the middle of the stream, playing out his line in a series of whipping arcs that threatened to strip the leaves from the nearest trees.

Barnabas found a place further downstream where the current eddied around a large rock, leaving a pool of quieter water on the far side of the stream. He played his fly over the pool, momentarily wishing he still retained his vampiric strength. He'd forgotten how heavy the rod was, and that he'd required a servant's help on past (long, long past, he thought wryly) fishing trips. But, his pride being what it was, he was determined not to let a little thing like sore arms prevent him from showing Quentin that sometimes the old ways *were* the better ways.

* * * * *

Four hours later, the men returned to the cabin and collapsed on the sofa, which groaned in protest. They were covered in mosquito bites. Quentin was soaked to the skin – he'd tripped on a rock while wading upstream to find a better spot, and had fallen into the water. The hip waders, designed to keep water *out*, had filled to the brim. He'd been forced to take them off before he could make his way to shore. He hoped that whatever water creatures made their homes in them appreciated his donation.

Barnabas' arms were so tired his hand trembled when he reached up to scratch an insect bite on the side of his neck. The left side of his face was sunburned, and there was an abominably itchy-burning spot on his ankle that he suspected was poison ivy.

Neither of them had caught anything.

Quentin squirmed when he felt the end of a spring poke him in the backside. He lifted his head slightly from the back of the sofa and turned to Barnabas.

"Wanna flip for the bed?" he asked tiredly.

Barnabas shook his head. "No. I've seen it. I think I would prefer to brave the dubious comforts of the couch rather than what awaits just outside the bedroom window." At Quentin's questioning glance, Barnabas merely replied, "You'll see."

Quentin heaved his lanky frame upright and headed into the bedroom, while Barnabas pulled out the sofa bed and placed a thin foam rubber mattress on top of the worn one that came with the bed, and on top of that, a sleeping bag. He had just sat down to unlace his boots when he heard the sound of the bedroom window being slid open, followed by a gagging sound, and a slam as it was forcibly shut again. Barnabas smiled to himself as he slid into the sleeping bag.

CHAPTER 6

Julia let herself into the foyer of Collinwood. Even though she no longer lived there, she still tended to think of it as "home" sometimes, and Elizabeth and Roger had done nothing to discourage this. They had told her unequivocally that she was welcome any time.

She removed her sweater and hung it on the rack by the door, then moved into the drawing room to wait for Elizabeth. She wasn't sure this was such a good idea, however. She'd received a call that morning from Elizabeth asking her over for afternoon tea. Not having a valid reason to decline the invitation, Julia had found herself accepting. But it had come far too soon after her inexplicable anxiety attack on the hill and subsequent conversation with Willie to be coincidence. She appreciated Willie's concern, but the prospect of facing Elizabeth seemed daunting at the moment.

She paused in mid-thought and absently fiddled with her ring. Why should talking with Elizabeth be anything but pleasant? In the five years since she had come to live at Collinwood, Elizabeth Stoddard had proven to be a staunch and loyal friend. She had never failed to provide Julia with a listening ear when she needed it, and Julia was grateful for her friendship.

Yet Julia suddenly found she wanted to return to the old house. She'd even gotten as far as the foyer doors when she heard Elizabeth's footsteps coming from the back passageway. She carried a tray with a teapot and cups, as well as a plate of cookies and fresh fruit.

"Julia!" Elizabeth put the tray down on the coffee table and gave Julia a quick hug. "I'm so glad you could come. We've missed you. You and Barnabas hardly seem to set foot outside of the Old House these days."

Julia laughed. "Really, now! We’re not *that* bad! Barnabas has been working at the shipyards, and I’ve been back and forth to Wyndcliffe. We’re just so busy that when we find we have a few spare hours that happen to coincide, we’d rather just stay home."

Elizabeth chuckled. "Of course. You and Barnabas are like any other newlywed couple I’ve ever met. I’ve caught glimpses of you two on your morning walks, or watching the sunset. I don’t think the rest of the world exists for you two."

"Well, it will be just me watching the sunset tonight," Julia replied. "Barnabas and Quentin went fishing for the weekend."

Elizabeth nodded. "Yes, Willie told me." At Julia’s sharp glance, Elizabeth added, "Oh, it’s all right. He just thought you might be at a loose end, and asked me to give you a call."

She busied herself with the teapot and pouring for herself and Julia. The two women were silent for a few minutes as they sipped their tea. Then Elizabeth offered the plate of food to Julia.

"Julia, won’t you have some cookies? Carolyn baked them this morning."

Julia felt yet another twinge of nausea. She shook her head. "No, thank-you, Elizabeth. I’m afraid my appetite isn’t very good at the moment."

"Oh, really? Aren’t you feeling well?" Elizabeth asked in concern.

"I’m fine," Julia said, once again playing with her ring. "Just a little upset. I’m sure it will go away."

Elizabeth looked at her a little more closely. "You *are* looking a little peaked. How long have you been feeling this way?"

"Not long." Julia forced an assurance into her voice that she was far from feeling. "Really, Elizabeth, I’m all right."

Elizabeth sat back on the couch, but still regarded Julia intently. "You’ve been married for a while now. Maybe you should see a doctor."

A bolt of fear shot through Julia. "No! I don’t need a doctor!" She realized how unreasonable she must sound, given Elizabeth’s mild suggestion and added lamely, "I’m sorry. Barnabas and Willie have been so concerned about me, I feel a little like I’m being smothered."

Elizabeth reached over and patted Julia’s hand. "That’s all right. They’re just concerned because they care about you. We all do. But you *will* think about it, won’t you?"

Julia made a half-hearted attempt at an agreement, then changed the subject and asked about David and Hallie.

* * * * *

She left Collinwood later than she had intended. The sun had just set and the path through the woods was dark and gloomy. An owl hooted somewhere close by, its call seeming to echo among the tall spruces. A birch tree loomed up in front of her as she walked quickly through the woods, its ghostly white trunk gleaming in the dusk.

She went over the discussion with Elizabeth in her mind. Elizabeth, in her well-meaning way, had asked so many questions, some of them coming close to what Julia was beginning to suspect herself.

She thought about her morning sickness and nausea, and a small tendril of fear insinuated itself into her thoughts, burrowing deeper and growing in strength.

Something rustled in the underbrush close by. She gasped, clutched unconsciously at her ring and backed away, her heart hammering in her chest. She yelped when she felt something digging at her back and lurched away, only to discover she’d backed into a tree.

Her anxiety and distress grew, and she became disoriented. The centre of the wood was very dark, being shaded by the tallest trees. She turned away from the tree she’d backed into and her heel caught on a root. She tripped, but caught her balance before she could fall. She uttered an incoherent cry of frustration and despair when she realized she’d strayed off the path entirely, and in the darkness couldn’t find it again.

Anxiety turned to panic. She plunged blindly through the thick underbrush, catching her clothing on thorns and branches. She held her hand up in an effort to protect her face from whipping branches, but she still felt the plants clutching at her, scratching her face and hands. In her blind rush through the darkness she tripped on another root, and this time went sprawling. The scream that left her throat was one of despair and hopelessness.

* * * * *

Willie was in the drawing room of the old house, lighting candles against the coming night. The house had been equipped with electricity recently, but Barnabas insisted some things were just better the old way. In this instance, Willie tended to agree with him. He stepped over to the windows and opened them to allow some fresh air into the room. The slight breeze tickled over the candle flames, making them dance and flicker. He decided to leave the drapes open; he liked to see the reflections of the flames in the darkened glass.

He turned away from the window and was about to leave the room when he heard what sounded like a scream coming from the woods. He dropped the matches without a second thought and bolted outside. He knew whose voice that was.

"Julia!" he called, running to the pathway. He paused to listen and thought he heard her sobbing, some distance off the path. He rushed back to the house and retrieved a flashlight from the kitchen drawer. He checked it quickly and was thankful he’d remembered to change the batteries the previous week.

He ran back outside to where he thought he’d heard her. The night was now pitch-dark. There was no moon, and clouds had blown in to obscure even the feeble light offered by the stars. The flashlight pierced the darkness, but got lost amongst the thick brush on the forest floor.

He cursed silently in frustration, then called out again. "Julia! Where are you!" This time there was no answer to his call. He moved in the direction he thought he’d heard her cries coming from, thrashing noisily through the plants.

He searched for what seemed like hours to him, but in reality was only a few minutes. At last the flashlight picked up the turquoise stripes of her grey sweater. He rushed over to her, alarmed by the fact that she wasn’t moving. He knelt down and felt her throat for a pulse, heaving a sigh of relief when he felt it quivering beneath his fingertips. He tried to rouse her by patting her cheeks and calling her name, but she remained unconscious.

At last he picked her up and carried her back to the old house, where he laid her on a sofa. He got a basin of water and disinfectant to bathe the injuries on her face and hands, and was on the point of calling a doctor when at last she awoke, groggy and disoriented.

"Willie?" She tried to sit up and groaned.

Willie put down the phone and hurried over to her. He gently pushed her back against the pillows and drew the afghan he'd thrown over her up to her neck.

"Shush, Julia," he said. "Don't try to get up."

"But, how did I get here?" she asked, becoming more alarmed when she raised her hands above the afghan and saw the scratches and gouges the trees had left. "What happened?"

Willie pulled a footstool close to the couch and sat down. "I found ya in the woods," he said uncomfortably. "I heard ya scream, and when I found ya, you was unconscious."

Julia shook her head in bemusement. Seeing this, Willie asked, "Don't ya remember?"

"No," she replied. "The last thing I remember is leaving Collinwood after having tea with Elizabeth. I don't remember being in the woods or what happened."

"Maybe I should call the doctor like I was goin' to do before ya woke up," he suggested.

"No!" Julia again tried to sit up, and actually succeeded, but a wave of dizziness forced her to lean her head against the sofa back. Seeing Willie's surprise at her reaction, she amended, "I don't need a doctor. Really. I must have tripped and hit my head."

Willie was still unconvinced. Julia could see him wavering between his desire to please her, and his instinct to call for medical help.

"I dunno, Julia. You was out for a long time before you finally came around . . ."

"All right, Willie, I'll make you a promise," Julia said, again pasting on a smile she didn't feel. "I promise you that if I'm not better by the morning, that I will see a doctor. Okay?"

"Well, okay," Willie said doubtfully. "But I'm gonna be checkin' on ya all night, whether ya like it or not."

Julia nodded feebly – it hurt to do anything else – then laid back against the pillows Willie had placed behind her head and closed her eyes.

CHAPTER 7

On Sunday morning, Barnabas was up early enough to watch the sun climb above the horizon beyond Lac Paradis. Even after all this time, he still marveled at being able to watch something as simple as a sunrise, and tried to enjoy them every chance he got. Even if that meant having to stand in mud and skunk cabbage to do it, he thought sourly.

He leaned against a tree stump and listened to the haunting cry of a loon echoing out over the water. The bird's eerie call descended from maniacal laughter to a keening whistle and back again. Barnabas felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck in appreciation for the sheer beauty of such an experience.

When the reds had faded to magenta, then pink, and at last grey, he sighed and returned to the cabin, scraping the mud off his shoes before he came in. He rummaged around in the box of provisions they'd brought with them and found coffee, eggs and bacon.

He started the coffee perking in the coffeepot he'd found on a plank shelf above the stove, then stowed his bedding and folded the bed back into a sofa. He tentatively placed his weight on one of the fragile-looking chairs, and when it wobbled alarmingly decided to trust his safety to the old sofa instead.

He was deep in thought some time later when Quentin emerged from the bedroom, drawn by the scent of fresh-perked coffee. He poured himself a cup and sat beside Barnabas on the couch, not trusting the rickety chairs either.

"Sleep well?" Quentin asked. Receiving no answer, he nudged Barnabas with his elbow. "Hey! Earth to Barnabas!"

Barnabas started. "Oh. Good morning, Quentin. Did you sleep well?"

"I asked first." He noticed Barnabas' preoccupation and remarked, "You're very quiet. Everything okay?"

"I've been thinking about Julia," Barnabas admitted. "Would you mind terribly if we left after breakfast?"

Quentin leaned over and put his coffee cup on the floor. He then got up and filled another one for Barnabas. Returning to the sofa, he eased himself back onto it, carefully avoiding the protruding springs, handed Barnabas the cup, then retrieved his own from the floor.

"You're that worried about her, huh?" Quentin asked. "You sure this isn't just a newlyweds' quarrel?"

Barnabas made an impatient gesture. "Of course it isn't. We've had our disagreements. But never anything like this." He took a sip from the rapidly cooling coffee. "No, this is different somehow. She's been acting very strangely. And we didn't quarrel before it happened – at least *I* didn't." He was silent a moment. "I just have this feeling that I need to be home. Now."

Quentin lightly punched his cousin's arm. "Sure, cousin. How 'bout if I make the breakfast? With the mood you're in, we might have charcoal instead of bacon." He chuckled, but the small jest was lost on Barnabas, who was, again, deep in thought.

* * * * *

They left after eating breakfast (which Barnabas merely picked at), and packing up their gear. A smiling Albini LaRoche waved at them as they left.

The drive home was quiet. Frustrated with his failed attempts to bring Barnabas into any kind of conversation, Quentin at last turned on the radio. He drove one-handed, with the other tapping out the accompanying rhythm to Chicago, the Doors and the Beatles.

* * * * *

On arriving back at the old house, Barnabas jumped out as soon as the Bronco came to a halt and sprinted to the door, where he was met by Willie.

"Barnabas, you're back early, an' it's a good thing too! We sure coulda used ya last night!"

Barnabas felt his face drain of colour. "Why? What's happened to Julia?"

"Oh, she's okay now," Willie said reassuringly, "but she had a real bad scare last night. Got lost between here an' the big house in the dark, and knocked herself out when she fell."

"My god!" Barnabas had to restrain himself from grabbing Willie by the shirt collar. "Where is she now?"

"She's up in bed," he told him. "She wanted to get up, but I wouldn't let her. I gotta warn ya, though. She ain't in a very good mood."

Barnabas barely heard the last; he was already inside the house and taking the stairs two at a time.

He found Julia in their bed, looking very small under the mound of blankets and quilts that Willie, in his anxiety and concern, had heaped upon her. The room was stifling because Willie had also built a large fire in the fireplace.

"Julia?" he said, sitting on the side of the bed and taking her hand in his. "Are you all right? Willie tells me you had an accident last night."

She struggled to sit up, and Barnabas obligingly fluffed up the pillows behind her.

"I'm all right," she tried to assure him, though her head still ached abominably and the cuts and scratches she had received last night burned.

"Can you tell me what happened?" he asked. "You've travelled that path hundreds of times. Why did you get lost last night?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. I'd been to see Elizabeth and left later than I should have. I was thinking about our conversation . . ." Her voice trailed off as she remembered going over that conversation, and the conclusion she had drawn. A knife-edged ribbon of fear twined itself around her heart and twisted her stomach. She gasped, withdrew her hand from his grasp and turned on her side away from him.

"Julia! What is it? What else do you remember?" Barnabas insisted gently.

"Go away." Her voice was muffled in the pillows.

"But, why?"

"Just leave me alone," she replied in a very small, tired voice.

"Shall I have Willie call the doctor?" he asked in a last-ditch effort to get her to talk.

Her voice took on a firm edge. She turned around only long enough to say, "If you call a doctor, Barnabas, I promise you that I won't ever forgive you," then she turned her face back away from him and stared into the flames in the fireplace.

* * * * *

The next few weeks passed in a blur of fear and misery. When she missed yet another period, she knew for certain that she must be pregnant. A small, still-rational part of her brain screamed at her to go to a doctor, but the despair she felt at knowing her fears realized was too great.

She took to wearing loose nightgowns to bed and dressing after Barnabas went downstairs. When he reached for her in love, she shrunk away in fear. She lay awake long hours after Barnabas fell asleep and listened to his gentle snores with hopelessness. Even though he was right beside her, Julia had never felt so alone in her life.

She continued to make her weekly trips to Wyndcliffe, but the journey was becoming more and more of an ordeal for her. In staff meetings she had trouble concentrating on what was being said, only zoning back in when she heard her name spoken. When questioned by well-meaning colleagues, she excused her inattention as trouble sleeping due to summer allergies. And all the while her hands were in her lap under the table, twirling the ring around her finger.

Barnabas was deeply concerned, but had no idea what had caused Julia's mysterious behaviour. He thought of consulting one of her colleagues at Wyndcliffe, but he knew she'd be furious at having her private life broadcast about her workplace. As well, there was her adamant refusal to allow him to seek any kind of medical help.

He had a serious talk with Elizabeth, in the hopes that as Julia's friend Elizabeth would be able to help. But Elizabeth was just as mystified, and hadn't seen Julia at Collinwood since she had come to tea almost two months ago.

And so Barnabas helplessly watched the woman who had been his strength and his anchor for more than five years retreat into a shell of fear and hopelessness.

CHAPTER 8

The night was unbearably warm. The air was humid and clung like a heavy, damp blanket to everything it touched. Mosquitoes battered senselessly against the screens Barnabas had had Willie install on all the windows.

He awoke from a fitful sleep, the back of his neck soaked with sweat. Still half-asleep, he reached over to the other side of the bed, only to discover Julia was gone. His thin cotton pyjamas clung to his damp body as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. He retrieved his robe, not for warmth or modesty, but for the meagre protection it afforded against the voracious little predators he could hear whining in the still air.

He searched the house for her, but Julia was nowhere to be found. The stove in the kitchen was cold, the kettle silent. There was no glass on the counter testifying to a midnight thirst. Her shoes, purse and keys were where she'd dumped them the night before, so he knew she hadn't gone far.

He paused in the hallway, then inspiration struck, and with a smile he returned upstairs, down the long hallway past the bedrooms, up past the servants' quarters on the third floor, and finally, up a narrow, winding stairway at the back of the house.

The stairway led to a door, its hinges rusted from disuse, the landing dusty, but with one set of small footprints in the grime. The open doorway framed the vast night sky with its jewelled dome unbroken by obscuring clouds or piercing trees.

He'd started to restore the widow's walk soon after he'd restored the rest of the house. For safety's sake, the rotted and rusted railing had been replaced with glossy black wrought iron that contrasted sharply with the white marble of the columns and curving portico roof. The walkway itself was slate, which had cracked and chipped over two centuries, but was still serviceable until he could get around to having it replaced.

There was no moon, and he had to strain his eyes in the dimness to find her, but when he at last spotted her on the walk above the portico, he wondered how he could not have seen her. At this height the mosquitoes were no problem, and there was a faint ocean breeze that was not evident at the lower levels of the old house.

She held the wrought iron railing lightly, for balance, not support. Her head was thrown back and her eyes were closed as she enjoyed the welcome coolness as the slight breeze dried her dampened hair and skin. Her filmy nightgown blew out behind her in a gentle wave.

Barnabas leaned against the doorframe, content just to watch her. She was relaxed for the first time in weeks. The frown lines were erased from her brow, and the stubborn stiffness with which she had held herself was gone. She was like a dancer, poised, ready, yet at rest.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and his slipper scraped against the cracked slate. She turned at the sound, and the dancer was gone, usurped by a doe, tensed and ready for flight. She stared at him with eyes wary and wide with misery. Her shoulders slumped as if with a great weight.

He was with her in a heartbeat, holding her to him. He ached to take away the pain he saw etched on her face, but knew if he pressed she would only withdraw again, back behind the wall she had erected in the past few weeks.

So he simply held her, and she clung to him for all she was worth. Her hands clutched handfuls of his robe, and when that didn't satisfy her, she fumbled with the ties of his robe and the buttons of his pyjama top. She pressed herself against his naked chest, heedless of the sweat caused by two bodies pressed together in the humid night.

Julia never cries, a little voice in the back of Barnabas' mind insisted, yet she sobbed as she clung to him. He had never felt so helpless, and yet perversely, so strong. He could do nothing to stem her tears, but he gave her his strength and provided an anchor for her emotional turmoil.

Her sobs diminished, and she pulled away slightly to wipe ineffectually at the wetness on his chest. He caught her hands and led her over to the bench that stood at a corner of the roof walk, made of the same wrought iron as the railing. He sat and pulled her into his lap, then gently guided her head to his shoulder. He cradled her much as he used to cradle his sister when she was in need of comfort.

He kissed her forehead and caressed her damp curls with his cheek. When at last her weeping ceased and she was quiet, he found one of her hands and kissed it, then held it gently.

"Tell me about it," he urged her softly.

She shook her head. "I can't."

"You can, and you must," he said intensely. "You can't go on like this." He paused. "*I* can't go on like this. I can't bear to see you in such pain. Please, let me share it."

"I'm afraid," she admitted, her voice a fabric-muffled whisper.

He moved her head to his other shoulder, and with a forefinger tilted her face up so he could both see and hear her.

"There's nothing to be frightened of," he told her. "Whatever is causing you such pain, I want to be able to help you." He kissed her tear-reddened eyelids. "Tell me."

She moved from his lap to the bench, clasped her hands tightly in her lap and stared out at the night-blacked ocean. The thumb of her right hand toyed nervously with her wedding ring.

"I'm pregnant."

His heart gave a great leap of joy but, sensitive to her mood, he stifled his impulse to pick her up and twirl her about in gladness. He put one arm around her shoulders, and with the other hand he tremblingly smoothed her disheveled hair away from her forehead.

"Julia, my love," he said, trying to control the quivering in his voice and hands, "I love you more than you will ever know. Nothing would please me more than for you to bear my child. Tell me what frightens you so."

She stood and walked over to the railing. Turning to face him, she said, "Look at me. I'm 46 years old. I should almost be thinking about *grandchildren*, not children. What if something goes wrong?"

She turned back to stare unseeingly ahead of her at the blackness and didn't move, even when Barnabas rose from the bench to stand close beside her.

"My mother was not much younger than you when she bore Sarah, and that was in the days when the most reliable medical help was the village midwife. With the advances in today's medicine, even if something should go wrong, there will be a doctor close at hand to assist."

"Barnabas, I’ve seen the crosses under the oak tree," she told him quietly. "How many children did your mother lose between you and Sarah? Nine?"

"But they were not all still-births. Some died of illnesses. Zebulon was thrown from his pony." He was silent for a moment, remembering his younger brother. Zebulon had been nine years old when Barnabas was twenty-one, tall for his age, lean and blond. He fancied he could still hear his mother’s screams when the stable boys had brought in his broken body . . .

He shook himself and brought himself back to the present. Now was not the time to remember his mother’s grief. He put his arm around Julia’s waist and pretended not to notice when she flinched at his touch.

"Our baby will be born healthy and strong," he said with assurance. "You need not fear on that account."

Still she didn’t move or reply. He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. "Fear for our child is not the only reason you’re afraid. You’re a doctor. You *know* there’s no reason to be frightened on that account." She would have faced the sea again, but he held her chin gently between thumb and forefinger and made her look at him. "Right?"

She nodded reluctantly, but then pulled away from him and returned to the bench. Her arms were crossed tightly over her waist.

"I know that, and I keep telling myself that. But why, when I think of the baby inside me, do I feel so afraid?" Unable to keep still, she rose and started to pace.

"I felt it move today," she said in a near-whisper. "A tiny flutter that could have been anything else, but I *knew* it was the baby. And I was terrified." She looked up at him, and he saw a tear glittering in the starlight. "I love you, and I always thought I would treasure your baby. I used to dream of holding him in my arms and looking into eyes just like yours." Her voice caught in a sob and she swallowed so she could continue. "Now when I think of it, all I know is fear. Blind, unreasoning panic. And I can’t get away from it."

She stopped her pacing and again stared out past Widows’ Hill, her shoulders hunched and head drooped in abject misery.

A thousand thoughts went through Barnabas’ head. He was silent for a long time as he thought about Julia’s admission. This world was so different than the one he’d been born to. There weren’t so many questions back then, nor so many options. God dealt you a hand and you played it. There was no possibility of being dealt a new hand, stacking the deck, or changing the cards. Now?

He sighed and leaned against the railing, looking out at the same blackness she did. "Do you want the child?" he asked, dreading the answer.

She looked up at him in shock. "How could you even think such a thing?" she asked, some of her old fire returning. "I’m a doctor. I save lives – I don’t take them." She paused as if surprised at her own answer. "Yes, I want it," she continued. "I’m more afraid than I’ve ever been in my life, yet I still want it."

Barnabas sighed again, this time in relief. He’d been so afraid that, in her present state of mind, she would choose another alternative. He drew her back to the bench and put his arm back around her shoulders.

"So, what *do* you want to do?" he asked her earnestly.

She considered for a long moment, again toying with her wedding ring. Then, coming to a decision, she raised her chin, looking at him levelly and calmly. Her hands were still.

"I want to stop being afraid," she said simply. "I don’t know what’s causing the anxiety, fear and depression. Some mood swings are normal in a pregnancy as hormone levels rise and fall, but this is far outside my medical experience."

She was silent again as she considered what she’d just said, and the ease with which she’d said it. "Why was that so easy to say?" she asked him. "Why, now, can I admit to something that just yesterday I was so fearfully determined to keep hidden from you?"

He kissed her forehead and drew her closer. "Maybe it’s just being able to share – to know you aren’t alone in what faces you.". He took one of her hands and kissed it. "When we married, we became one. That means that you are my strength where I am weak, as I am yours." He laced his fingers with hers, then held their linked hands up for her to see. "Together we can overcome whatever is causing this. Together we are strong." He voice took on a steel edge. "I promise you, my dearest, that we *will* find out what is doing this to you."

Julia regarded their hands thoughtfully, then raised her eyes to his. "I've been so independent for most of my life. I've become so used to standing alone that for a time I forgot how to share my burden with you. I know it won't be easy – the fear's still there. But I know that with your help I can face it."

He rose and with their hands still joined, held out his other hand in invitation. "Are you ready to come back to bed?"

She gladly gave him her hand and allowed him to lead her back downstairs.

Back in bed, Barnabas lay on his side facing Julia. He hesitantly touched her shoulder, expecting her to turn away from him as she had done every night for the past several weeks. He knew the fear was still there; he could tell by the way she flinched involuntarily when he touched her, and the way she bit her lip to keep from crying out. But at the same time, there was determination in her eyes. She would overcome this problem as she had others – through sheer stubbornness of will. She shuddered when he ran his hand down her arm, but met his gaze with love.

When he would have pulled his hand away, she placed her hand over his.

"Don't stop." Her voice was a throaty whisper.

He let his hand stray over her breast, and noticed for the first time its new fullness. She inhaled sharply as he passed his fingers lightly over the nipple. He drew his hand lower, over her hip and coming to rest on the new bulge of her abdomen. He cupped it in his hand; he'd somehow expected it to be soft, but it was firm, only yielding when he pushed gently with a finger. Overcome with emotion at the changes he saw in her body that she'd kept hidden from him, he laid his head on her belly and held her tightly.

At last he kissed the bulge where their child rested and turned his eyes back to her.

"When?" he asked softly. His warm brown eyes shone with love.

"November," she replied. Even though she was determined not to give in to her fear any more, she still shuddered when she thought of what lay ahead. Barnabas noticed and drew her even closer.

"It's July now," he said, his brows furrowing in concern as he mentally counted backward. "You've actually managed to keep all this from me for five months?"

"Two, actually. I didn’t suspect until around the time you and Quentin went fishing."

"My poor darling." He kissed her tenderly and was heartened when she began to respond. When she grew even grew more insistent he drew back slightly. "Are you sure?" he asked.

"I need you," she replied, reaching for him. "I don't want to be alone anymore."

But he hesitated once more. "Is it all right for . . .?" he asked, running his hand slowly over her belly.

At the unspoken mention of the baby, a tendril of anxiety wound its way through her and clenched her stomach. She resolutely drew a deep breath and pushed it away.

"He's too small to be hurt by what we do yet. We'll just be careful."

"He?" Barnabas asked, quirking his eyebrow humourously.

"Certainly. No child of mine is going to be an 'it'!" Hearing the determination in her voice, he was reminded again of why he loved this small woman possessed of such courage and will.

He hesitated no longer, but rested his elbows on either side of her and kissed her deeply.

He made love to her with a slow gentleness that matched the wonder he still felt when he thought of the new life growing inside her. And when their passion had been spent, they fell asleep in each others' arms.

* * * * *

She dreamed again that night. The same dismal tunnel that ended in the same bloody glow. The figure again stood waiting as she trudged wearily to meet her.

"Angelique." Her dream-self recognized the figure immediately. "What do you want now?"

"You think that by telling Barnabas of your fears that you will lessen them?" Angelique asked scornfully.

She glided lightly over rocks that Julia had had to plod through, then circled her, eyeing her appraisingly. "You are no match for my power. Did you really think that you could overcome my curse through *willpower* alone?"

Julia found herself wondering how such a beautiful woman with such a lilting voice could embody such evil. She drew herself up and thrust out her chin stubbornly. "There are some things that even your magic can't overcome."

"We shall see, doctor. We shall see." Angelique waved her hand negligently, and the tunnel began to waver. "In your case, my dear Julia, a fear shared is *not* a fear halved." The sound of the witch's disdainful laugh lingered long after the rest of the dream faded.

Julia awoke with a gasp. She shuddered in unremembered fear, then turned over and reached for Barnabas who, even while he was asleep, somehow managed to lend her the strength she needed. Her heartbeat slowed, her eyelids lowered, and she fell asleep again.

CHAPTER 9

Julia retired early the next night. She'd felt much better than she had in weeks, and marvelled again at how much difference the simple act of sharing her fears and state of mind had made. But the many sleepless nights had taken their toll, and she had started nodding off soon after dinner. She made her apologies to Barnabas and Quentin, who had come over for the evening, then headed upstairs to bed.

Quentin watched her go. When he heard her bedroom door close he turned back to Barnabas.

"How's she been lately?" he asked, settling into one of the wing chairs and stretching out comfortably.

"She seems to have reached a crossroads of sorts," Barnabas replied. "We had a long talk last night, and she finally shared what's been bothering her."

Quentin exhaled in relief. "That *is* good news. We were all pretty worried for awhile there, especially when she seemed to withdraw into herself and wouldn't let you call a doctor."

"That troubled me too," Barnabas admitted. "I thought about consulting one of her colleagues anyway, but decided against it."

Quentin whistled. "Can you imagine what she'd have done to you if you *had* called? I wouldn't want to be in your shoes, cousin." He sobered. "So, do you know what her problem is?"

Barnabas shook his head in frustration. "No. She admits she's afraid, but doesn't know what she's afraid of." Barnabas rose from where he'd been sitting and walked over to the cold fireplace and stared up at his portrait. With his back still to Quentin, he said, "And she's pregnant."

Quentin whooped in delight and leaped up to pound Barnabas on the back. "A baby!? Barnabas! Congratulations! That's wonderful news!" On seeing Barnabas' serious expression, he amended, "Or is it?"

"Oh, I'm absolutely delighted. I think Julia wants to be. But she says that every time she thinks of the child she has what I believe is called a 'panic attack'. Even she says it's outside her experience. How can she be afraid of her own child?" he wondered, seating himself again.

"That seems really strange to me," Quentin agreed. He thought about the few times he'd seen Julia over the past couple of months. "This thing seems to have progressed from the irritability you told me about, to being distant, to being afraid. And did you notice how she keeps playing with her wedding ring? She's never been the kind of person to develop a nervous habit, has she?"

Barnabas shook his head. "Not since she quit smoking, no. And yet, now that you mention it, she *does* seem to reach for it and move it around her finger when she gets nervous. I've even noticed her fiddling with it when she's asleep and dreaming." Then he shook his head. "That ring was my mother's. My mother had so little happiness in her life. I thought that if I gave the ring to Julia it would, in some measure, make up for what my mother had to bear, and the tragic way in which she died."

Quentin sat bolt upright in his chair. "Barnabas, don't you get it? It must be the ring! You said that Julia only fiddles with it when she's nervous or afraid, right?" Barnabas nodded. "Well, she was calm tonight, and she didn't play with it once."

Barnabas rose from his chair and started towards the stairs. "That must be it! Excuse me, Quentin. I'm going to go and get that ring away from her."

He was back in the drawing room almost immediately. "Quentin, she's gone!"

The two men stared at each other in shock, then headed outside.

* * * * *

Julia stood at the edge of the cliff known as Widows Hill. The wind whipped her thin nightgown around her legs and sent darts of searing cold through her body. The waves far below crashed against the rocks and sent up plumes of phosphorescent spray in their fury.

Her face was wet, but she wasn't sure if it was the drops of rain she was dimly aware of, or her own tears. She only knew that she couldn't bear the misery any longer, and so she sought solace from the elements.

She'd awoken earlier from yet another dream and felt the baby move for the second time, fluttering gently inside her. She shuddered when she felt it – the panic was back, insinuating itself into her thoughts and making her realize that her previous night's resolve would amount to nothing. How could she fight fear with willpower? How could she be so foolish as to think that Barnabas' strength and support could help her? She realized that nothing on earth could help her. She had to get away – away from Barnabas with his love that could do her no good, away from the warm house – just away. She crept carefully down the back stairs, the ones that in previous times had been used by servants, and then out the back door and down to the cliff.

She moved her bare feet closer to the edge of the cliff. The wind seemed to redouble its howling, and she thought she could hear the voices of the three legendary widows the cliff had been named for. They screeched and howled about her, seeming to push her yet closer to the precipice. She heard words in the widows' wailing, words of despair that echoed her desolate mood – "hopeless", "foolish", "unloved", "weak", "sorrow", "give up", and "death".

The wind blew her tears from her cheeks and blended them with the rain, which now was coming down in torrents. She spread her arms in invitation to the widows, sobbing her anguish.

* * * * *

Barnabas and Quentin ran from the old house, calling Julia's name.

"Where do you think she would've gone?" Quentin panted. "Collinwood?"

"No," Barnabas replied, gasping for breath. "I don't know why, but I don't think she's gone there."

A sudden bolt of lightning illuminated the scene around them in a black-and-white strobe of brilliance. In the split-second between light and darkness, Barnabas saw something and pointed. "There! Look!"

Before Quentin had a chance to ask what Barnabas had pointed to, Barnabas had dashed off down the front lawn to the cliff. Another flash of lightning showed him what Barnabas had seen – a small figure teetering on the very edge of the cliff. He swore and ran to catch up to Barnabas.

They skidded to a halt some distance from Julia, not wanting to startle her.

Barnabas edged closer. "Julia!" he called. "Come away from the edge!"

She shook her head. "I'm afraid!" she sobbed. "I can't live–!" The rest of her words were carried away by the howling wind.

"It's the ring, Julia!" Quentin yelled. "Take off the ring!"

Barnabas held out his hand. "Don't say that, Julia!" he called out to her, pitching his voice to be heard over the wind wailing about them. "I love you. We can still fight this. Just give me your hand!"

She looked uncertainly at Barnabas, then down at the ocean's fury far below.

Seeing her doubt, Quentin yelled again, "Julia! Take off your wedding ring! It's the ring that's making you feel this way!"

Her right hand went to her left, and again began twirling the ring around and around her finger. She sobbed as another wave of despair hit her.

"Don't you see what you're doing?" Quentin called out to her again. "You play with that ring whenever you're frightened. Get rid of it!"

Barnabas edged another foot closer. "Quentin's right," he told her. "Take off the ring."

She looked at her ring, then up at Barnabas, her eyes wide with fear and doubt. "But you gave me that ring," she said in a small voice. "I can't get rid of it."

"It's all right," Barnabas told her reassuringly. "I'll give you another. But you must take this one off. Now."

Her right hand ceased playing with the ring. Her fingers rested on the ring and for a moment hesitated there. Then Julia lifted her chin in resolution and in one swift motion pulled the ring off and dropped it to the ground, where it rolled down the hill and over the cliff.

With the absence of the ring and the sudden dissipation of the power that had been channeled through it, Julia collapsed. Barnabas leaped to catch her before she could fall toward the cliff, and pulled her back from the edge. The wind suddenly died down and the rain eased to a fine mist.

Julia moaned and tried to rise, but her legs just didn't seem to be able to hold her. Barnabas swept her up and carried her back to the warmth and safety of the Old House.

He wrapped her in the afghan that was usually draped over the sofa and held her until she at last opened her eyes.

"Where am I?" she asked weakly.

"You're back in the house, in the drawing room," she heard Barnabas tell her, his beautiful voice making her feel secure and protected. "We brought you in from outside."

"Outside? What was I doing –?" She gasped and struggled to sit up. "I remember! I remember all of it!"

Quentin pulled his chair closer. "What do you remember?" he asked.

"Everything. I *know* what caused my fear." She raised her eyes to Barnabas. "It was Angelique."

"Angelique!" The way Barnabas said the name made it sound like a curse. "How could she do this to you?"

"She cursed the ring," Julia replied softly, glancing involuntarily to the empty spot on her left hand where her wedding ring had sat. "She said that as long as I wore the ring, when I became aware of the new life growing in me, that I would feel nothing but fear and despair."

She swallowed. "It was more than despair," she continued. "I'd never felt so alone. I felt that no one could help me, and that it was useless to talk about it, to ask for help. She came to me in a dream after our talk last night and laughed at me for thinking you could help me. Tonight, I felt the baby move again and the fear she sent me was so overpowering, so overwhelming, that I didn't think I could live with it."

"And you almost didn't. If we didn't get there when we did –" Barnabas shuddered to think what almost happened and pulled Julia closer to him, just as much to reassure himself as her.

"But we *did* get there in time. And everything's going to be just fine now." Quentin rose and gripped Barnabas' hand briefly, then bent and kissed Julia on the cheek. I think it's time I left now, so you two can be alone."

After he heard the door close, Barnabas kissed Julia tenderly and enveloped her in a fierce hug that left her gasping for breath. When he released her, it was only as far as his arms would allow.

"I almost lost you tonight," he said, his voice breaking as he imagined what could have happened.

"Shh, I'm here now." She pulled his head down so it was pillowed on her shoulder and caressed his hair, still damp from the rain.

"Julia, ever since I've met you, you've been my anchor, my strength, sometimes even my conscience. What would I do if Angelique *had* won?"

"It didn't happen," she soothed him. "My only regret is that she had the gall to curse my wedding ring. I loved that ring – not for the gold and diamonds, but for the words you spoke when you gave it to me, and for the hope it symbolized."

He took her left hand and kissed her bare left ring finger. Then he gently removed the emerald ring he'd given her last year from her middle finger and placed it back on her ring finger.

"Will this do until I can find you another one?" he asked with a twinkle in his eye.

She squeezed his hand which still held hers. "Barnabas, you know I don't a proof of your love," she replied tranquilly. "You show me every day. I wouldn't be here now if not for your love."

She shivered and Barnabas remembered her wet clothing. He scooped her up into his arms, against her mild protests, and carried her upstairs where he drew a warm bath for her. He sat on the rim of the tub and ministered to her, sponging her back and washing her hair. Again she protested that she could do this on her own, but he just as firmly told her he would do it. She gave in, sensing that he *needed* to do this for her, to reassure himself that she was well and that she would always be with him. When she was finished, she stood while Barnabas towelled her dry.

She gasped. "He moved again. Do you feel him – here?" She took his hand and placed it on her abdomen.

He was very still, not even daring to breathe, then he felt it – the tiniest of ripples. It was so small that at first he thought it was his imagination, until he felt it again.

"That's him?" he asked in wonder.

She nodded. "He's still so small I wasn't sure you could feel him. Sometimes it feels like a gas bubble to me."

"How big is he?" he asked, still keeping his hand where he could feel his child.

"About the size of your fist," she replied. She leaned back against Barnabas to allow him to place both hands on her belly.

He kissed the side of her neck, then moved his hands in a gentle exploration that gradually became more erotic. Suddenly he stopped, turned her around and placed his hands on her shoulders.

"Barnabas, what is it?" she asked, seeing the serious expression on his face.

"Tomorrow, my dear, you *are* going to see a doctor," he told her in a no-nonsense voice. "I've learned that women are expected to see a physician once a month when they are in your condition. You are long past due for a consultation with yours."

Only after he'd extracted a promise from her that she would see her doctor did he resume his explorations. They ended in a love-making that was fiery and passionate as they showed each other with their bodies how deep their relief and love was.

* * * * *

Angelique came to her in one final dream. This time Julia stood at the end of the fiery tunnel. She saw Angelique haloed in the red glow, but she stood her ground and with her confident stillness forced Angelique to come to her.

Julia crossed her arms and regarded the beautiful blonde witch dispassionately. "Are we going to have one of these meetings every time I make love with my *husband*?" she asked, deliberately emphasizing the last word.

Angelique glared at her with malevolent hatred. "You and Barnabas may have won this time," she said, "but be warned, I am not finished with you. As long as you are married to *my* husband, I will always be there in the back of your mind, and Barnabas'. You will think of me when you look at your child and remember what I am capable of."

Julia laughed. "Oh, please! Capable of what? We defeated you, Angelique. You have *no* hold on us. I refuse to let you intrude on our lives any longer. Stay out of our lives."

Angelique opened her mouth with a retort, but Julia turned away before she could reply. Julia calmly strode back down the tunnel, which gradually faded to black as the dream ended.

CHAPTER 10

The remainder of Julia's pregnancy progressed uneventfully. Her doctor pronounced her in excellent health and saw no reason why she would have any difficulties with the pregnancy or delivery.

Barnabas was delighted and insisted on treating her as if she was made of the most delicate china, much to her amused annoyance. He hired a decorator for the baby's room, and it was painted in a delicate shade of yellow with a border of colourful anthropomorphic letters Рhe decided it was never *too* early to learn the ABC's. They shopped in Bangor for furniture and purchased an oak four-poster crib with a miniature canopy that matched the white lace curtains on the windows. The crib fit perfectly with the antique d̩cor of the rest of the Old House.

* * * * *

Justin Kyle Collins was born on November 15, 1973, after a labour which the doctors pronounced as miraculously easy considering the age of the mother.

When asked by Willie and Quentin why they hadn't gone with the tradition of naming children after deceased relatives or after Biblical patriarchs, Barnabas replied that most of his relatives had died under tragic circumstances. He and Julia had agreed that their son deserved a fresh start in life, and therefore needed a new, fresh name as well.

* * * * *

Julia and Justin had been home for a day. An early snowstorm blustered about the old house, but inside the fireplace had been built up and a fire was crackling merrily in the drawing room fireplace. Julia sat with her feet up on the sofa, looking on lovingly while Justin nursed hungrily at her breast.

"I don't know if I'll ever get used to that," Barnabas said as he watched from the doorway.

Julia looked up and smiled. "Get used to what?"

He approached and knelt in front of his wife and son. "You, with a baby – *our* baby – at your breast." He moved her robe away so he could see Justin's face more clearly, pressed against her creamy white breast. "I still can't believe this little bundle is my son."

"You'd better believe it," she told him laughingly. "You helped create him." She slipped her finger into a corner of Justin's mouth to break the suction and moved him to the other breast before he had time to think of protesting the interruption in his food supply.

Barnabas laid a gentle hand on his son's head. "But he seems such a miracle. Especially in view of what you had to go through." He watched as Julia expertly got Justin resettled. "You do that very well, for a new mother. I was reading in one of your books – " he blushed slightly when Julia raised an eyebrow at him, "– that nursing is sometimes difficult for new mothers. How did you gain such expertise, so fast?"

"When I was in medical school, one of the rotations I did was on the maternity ward. I liked to watch the nurses help the new mothers, and I helped out sometimes when the nurses were too busy. It was a long time ago, but I guess I remembered what I had to."

At that moment Willie rounded the corner as he came into the room to stack more wood on the fireplace, and halted in his tracks, blushing furiously.

"Geez, Julia! I’m sorry! I didn't know you was in here, or I wouldn't have –" He turned his back to the family and stared out the window in embarrassment.

Julia calmly covered Justin's head with a corner of his blanket. "Willie, it's a natural function." When the young man still didn't turn around, she sighed. "Willie! It's all right. See? We're covered up now."

Willie hesitantly turned back and went to the fireplace to complete his chores, not daring to look up.

Barnabas laughed. "Relax, Willie. It's just one of the things you're going to have to get used to, now that there's a child in the Old House at last."

THE END





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