The horse was still downstairs. Nikita stroked its mane as she left the kitchen. It was beautiful, but it was definitely in the way. Now that she had opened up the loft space, there was no reason why they couldn't move it in there. She could work around it, as long as she draped a tarp over it to protect it from the construction.

"Michael . . ." she called out.

He looked around the corner and saw her standing beside the horse. He groaned, knowing what she was going to ask.

"Don't you think we'd better . . . ?"

"I thought you were too full for physical exertion."

"Right now I am. But later on tonight . . ."

"All right. But I plan on charging for my services."

She wiggled her eyebrows at him.

"I always pay what I owe."

She gave the horse another pat and sashayed into the main room to light the fire. He stood mesmerized. (Quelle derriere!) A hot weight settled between his thighs. He tugged at his jeans, trying to ease the discomfort. It didn't help much.

* * * * *

The fire was roaring. The dishes were done. The two of them were riding to Camelot.

Rocking . . . rocking . . . her hands were wound tight in the reins. His own hands cramped around the edges of the saddle as he held himself upright, his hips thrust forward, his thighs gripping the sides of the horse. He was inside her from behind. Like a piston, he pushed deeper when they rocked back, then slipped nearly out when they rocked forward. Her bottom bumped rhythmically against his pubic bone with every backward stroke. She could feel him, swollen tight, hot and hard and slick with their mingled juices. Faster and faster they rode. Their journey's end was sight. She suddenly leaned forward over the horse's neck, twisting her hands in the mane. She stood in the stirrups, her legs stiffly extended, as her bottom lifted in a full display of readiness. She heard the creak of the leather as he lurched forward, his inflamed penis a battering ram pounding at the entrance to the inner bailey. The gate opened and they surged through it together, announcing their arrival with mingled cries of ecstasy.

* * * * * * * * * * *

A month passed. Nikita spent long days working in the loft. Brick dust rose and settled, plaster and paint dried. Floorboards were sanded and polished. All in secret. For it was to be her surprise gift to him.

Meanwhile, Michael was involved in a project of his own. Every day he left the house after breakfast and didn't come home until late afternoon. He left empty-handed and returned the same way. He didn't take either the bike or the Rover. He walked, bundled against the wind when necessary. If it rained, he wore his long trenchcoat and heavy boots. If the sun was shining he wore a T-shirt, sweater and jeans. During all this time, Nikita respected his privacy. She didn't need to question him -- all she had to do was look at him.

One rainy afternoon, she lay on their bed, replaying in her mind the events of the past few weeks. It had all started a day or two after they had transferred the horse to the loft. She had intended to begin working right away, but she had had cramps too bad. Usually her period came and went without much fuss, but this time she bled heavily and painfully. All she wanted was a heating pad and enough Advil to allow her to sleep. The first morning, before the painkillers had taken effect, Michael had come into the bedroom to find her lying on her side, her knees drawn up, crying. She had stained the sheets but felt too bad to get up and change them. When Michael saw the state she was in, he had asked her how long it had been since her last period. It was then she realized that she had skipped a month. When she told him, he had gone white around the mouth, but said nothing. He gently bathed her and changed the sheets, then brought her a glass of brandy. She fell asleep then, and when she woke he was gone. He came home late that afternoon. By then she was feeling better. She had convinced herself that it had just been an anomaly --Section's birth control technology was still in effect, after all. It must have been the stress of the past few weeks that had caused this.

He had knocked politely on the bedroom door, and when she had opened it he had stepped mutely forward, arms at his sides. His face was deathly white, his eyes hooded and dark. She had wrapped her arms around him. It was a warm sunny day outside, but he was drenched in cold sweat. He smelled rank. She had stripped him down then and shoved him into a hot shower. It had taken nearly 30 minutes for him to stop shivering. That was the beginning. The next day and the next and the next -- all the same. For nearly three weeks. And at night, in bed, he only wanted to hold her and be held. Then one day last week he had come home warm and dry. His eyes were a clear green. She had hugged him close and breathed in the scent of sun and fresh air.

He had tightened his arms around her then, and she could feel his urgent need for her even through the overalls she was wearing. She had slipped them down and rubbed against him in welcome. He had freed himself and taken her with her back against the bedroom wall. The very memory aroused her. Her hand drifted down to her panties. Sure enough, they were damp.

(Just like one of Pavlov's dogs!) she thought wryly.

"Welcome home," she had said when she could speak again.

"Thank you."

The next day he had asked a favor. She recalled it all so vividly. It was as though she were watching a videotape.

* * * * * *

"Would you come with me to Bienville?"

"You know I will, Michael. When?"

"Now."

"Let me throw on a skirt and blouse. Or do you want to take the bike?"

He thought for a moment. "The bike would be good."

"Okay. Jeans then. Five minutes."

When she came back downstairs he was standing beside the bike. He had on his sunglasses and black leather gloves and was holding his helmet in his hand. Hers was propped on the seat. They mounted and rode away into the clear morning.

An hour later they roared into Bienville. Michael stopped the bike at the door to the church and dismounted. He removed his helmet and gloves, then the sunglasses. He looked pale and tense. She took his hand and squeezed it. His palm was damp.

Just then, the sacristan opened the door of the church. He was sorry, he said, but if they wanted to see Father Philippe they would have to come another day. He was visiting his sister in Abbeville. Then his eyes widened in recognition. He placed his hand on Michael's arm and said,

"I am very sorry for your loss, Monsieur. I remember you in my prayers each night. Perhaps Monsieur has come to visit . . .?" And he indicated the cemetary.

Nikita could feel Michael stiffen at the man's touch, but he politely replied, "Merci, Monsieur," and led Nikita toward the spot where his wife and child were buried.

The cemetary was as she remembered it -- worn, mossy stones interspersed with newer granite ones. The wildflowers were now in full bloom, covering the meadow with a carpet of orange and gold. As they approached Adam's and Elena's graves, she could see that a few stray flowers had taken root over them. She also saw that someone had arranged for stone markers. She read the inscriptions.

"Elena - Loving Wife and Mother"
"Adam - Beloved Son"

Her fist clenched in outrage. Michael's name appeared nowhere. He was even denied that small comfort.

Michael looked down at the markers, then back at her.

"It's all right. He was only thinking of what I would have done myself, if I had been able."

"Who was?"

"Walter."

It was his only reference to his state of mind on that horrible day. He squatted down and began to pluck out the few weeds that had begun to sprout in the fresh earth. He gently rubbed the petals of the wildflowers, then traced his stained index finger along the inscribed names. She knelt beside him and put her arm around his waist. She could feel the fine tremor running through his midsection. He took a deep breath. The tremor stopped. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. He was staring into space, eyes half-closed, smiling dreamily.

"What are you remembering?"

"Adam and Elena and me at the puppet show one Sunday afternoon. He loved the marionettes. They were called Marie et Gaston - like Punch and Judy in England. He would laugh and laugh when Marie hit Gaston over the head with the "gros baton." Elena and I would mimic them for him sometimes -- she would pretend to hit me with a big stick, and I would howl and fall down on the ground."

She thought of all the times Michael had been injured by one "gros baton" or another, and she marveled at his ability to protect his family from that darker reality for so long. He really had had to live his life split in two, not only for his own protection but for theirs. And in the end, his best efforts had not been enough to save them.

She unconsciously tightened her hold on him, and he turned to look at her. She had never able to hide her feelings from him, and now was no exception. He lifted her chin and kissed her.

"It's all right, Nikita. I'm all right."

And she knew that he was telling her the truth.

* * * * * *

"Nikita? May I come in?"

His voice called her back to the present.

She jumped up from the bed and took a quick survey of the new space. It was finally ready. She hoped he would like it.

"Hang on a minute. I'm coming."

She opened the door.

"Close your eyes," she instructed, covering them with her hand. "Okay now, hold my hand and let me lead you. That's it. Oops! Watch out for the dresser!"

"It's a bit late for the warning, but thank you anyway," he said politely, rubbing his shin.

She positioned him in the center of the archway which lead into the new space.

"All right. You can look now."

A fire was burning in the newly-opened hearth. Facing it from the far side were two easy chairs upholstered in moss-green velvet. An oriental rug vibrant in green and red and gold was spread beneath them. The far wall was lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases, filled now with Michael's new purchases and Nikita's treasures.

On the near side of the hearth stood the horse. It faced the mural Nikita had painted on one side wall. A forest scene, with a knight and his lady leading their horses down a narrow path. Huge oaks formed an archway over the path, and a single ray of sunlight shone on the travelers. On the other side wall was a companion piece. Camelot - with Pendragon pennants flying from every tower, the red dragons bright against a cloudless sky.

For a few minutes he just stood there. Then he stepped forward into the room, his practiced eye recording every detail as he turned slowly clockwise. He moved closer to the mural on the left wall and stood in front of it. He reached out his hand and lightly touched the sun-burnished hair of the lady in the forest.

Then he moved on to the bookcases at the far end. He ran his hand over the smooth wood, then brushed his fingers over the bindings of the books. He continued his circuit of the room, touching everything he saw. The chairs, the rug, the brickwork of the hearth, the red dragons.

At last he walked over to the horse. He stroked the leather saddle, then regarded Nikita through heavy-lidded eyes.

"Care for a ride, ma demoiselle?"

FIN

All song fragments are from Enya's new album.

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