Through the Looking Glass
by Lovesfox

Headers in Prologue


Part 4

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Diary of Liza MacGregor
December 20, 1872

Rose is with child.  She glows with happiness, as does John.  It 
sickens me, though I hide it well.  I play the good friend to them, 
so that I may one day watch their downfall.

I am so clever.  I woefully confessed to her that so pain-stricken 
by the broken engagement was I that I placed a curse on her.  Rose 
laughed, and declared that she believes not in curses and witchcraft.  
She forgave me for voicing such a thing.

She is a fool.
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Nantucket Town
12:15 AM


The slight, sweet burn of well-worked muscles, the sweat drenching 
his back and forehead –- to Mulder, those were the signs of a good 
run.  

The pounding of his feet was rhythmic and even on the paved surface 
of the road, a familiar, soothing music to his ears.  His breath 
steamed in the cool night air, and a low wind ruffled his hair, but 
he was far from cold.

He was on the return leg of a decent-sized run, heading back to the 
Inn, his mind quickly and easily noting the landmarks already fixed 
in place.  

Roughly two blocks from his destination, he slowed to a jog, and 
then to a brisk walk, for his cool down.  At the same section of 
fence where he had begun his run, he stopped and did a few leg 
stretches before resuming his walk, much slower now.

Passing the front gate, he turned instead up the long, crushed 
gravel driveway, recalling that Mr. Carrington had instructed him 
to park the rental car there as the man had been showing him his 
room.  He hadn't brought the keys with him; he'd have to move the 
car in the morning.

Aside from the two vehicles he assumed belonged to the Inn, or 
to the Carrington's, there were no other cars in the rather large 
parking area.

Now walking along the stone-stepped path that ran parallel to 
the side of the house, the woods at the edge of the property 
once again beckoned.  But he resisted that temptation.

Quietly letting himself in through the side entrance, Mulder 
automatically glanced around the darkened room before shutting 
the door behind him, hearing its low snick.  He moved easily 
through the lower floor of the house, and kept his footsteps 
light as he took the winding stairs two at a time.

At the top, he hesitated, one hand on the ornate newel post, and 
stared to his right at the door marked 'Private'.  He had caught 
Mr. Carrington's slight hesitation when the man had pointed out 
the family quarters, and it had piqued Mulder's curiosity.  

Maybe it was nothing at all -- perhaps Mr. Carrington was just 
very concerned with privacy and ensuring guests did not wander, 
it was hard to say.  He'd feel things out in the morning, see 
if there was any chance to question either or both of the 
Carrington's.  And if he turned on the charm and used his cover, 
he would most likely be able to wrangle an invitation to explore 
the entire house.

A sudden thought occurred to Mulder.  There was a third floor, 
and it was possible the house had a small attic as well.  He 
turned his head to look down the hallway in the direction of 
the guest rooms.  There were three doors on the right-hand side, 
which were those belonging to Scully and himself, and the one 
to the right of Scully's room at the end of the hallway was a 
linen closet, as Mr. Carrington had pointed out.  On the left 
side, there were three doors as well.  The Innkeeper had said 
they were all guest rooms, empty at the moment.   

All the doors were accounted for, and if that were so, there 
seemed be no access to either the third floor or an attic.  
Such an entrance had to be on the other side of the door marked 
'Private'.  A definite reason, or excuse as it were, to attempt 
to gain access to their quarters.  And if the Carrington's were 
hesitant when broached, there was always stealth.  Also known as 
funky poaching.  Of course, Scully would look a damn sight better 
in something black and sexy than the Gunmen.

Realizing that nothing could be done then, Mulder moved down 
the hallway, noting that Scully's door was closed, with no light 
shining at the bottom.  He glanced at his watch –- 12:15 am.  
She had been tired, dozing on the plane and in the rental car 
from the airport to the inn, so he decided not to disturb her.

He had left his own room unlocked –- the key was in fact sitting 
on the bureau where he had placed it earlier before changing for 
his run.  Entering, he flicked the light on, shut and locked the 
door behind him, and proceeded to strip.  His sweaty tee shirt 
and socks were discarded in a heap on the floor, which he nudged 
aside with one foot as he moved over to his as yet unpacked 
suitcase on the bed.  

Digging through the hastily filled items, he found a pair of 
boxers to sleep in, and pulled them out.  Grabbing his shaving 
kit bag as well, he headed into the bathroom he shared with 
Scully.

Already there were signs of her presence.  The room smelled 
faintly of her soap and moisturizer, as familiar to him as the 
scent of his own soap, and her make-up bag sat tidily on the 
shelf beside the sink.  His eyes moved to the claw foot tub, 
and he wondered if Scully had wanted to take a bath in it.

A shiver ran through him then, and he pushed the thought of 
Scully lazing amid mounds of bubbles out of his head.  He 
relieved himself, washed his hands, and then brushed his teeth, 
using the closest hand towel to dry off.  Lifting it up to pat 
his cheeks dry, he swore he smelled Scully on the terrycloth.

Mulder took one last deep breath, and then re-hung the towel.  
Retrieving his bar of soap from his kit bag, he moved over to 
the shower stall in the corner nearest his room.  Slowly 
sliding the door open, hoping it would not disturb Scully, 
he leaned in and turned on the taps.  Heavy on the hot water.

While waiting for the temperature to adjust, he stripped off 
his track pants and boxers together, letting them drop to the 
floor, before stepping inside the already steam-filled stall. 

Ducking his head under the water briefly, he quickly worked 
the soap into a good lather and scrubbed his body clean, 
obliterating the sweat of his run.  He'd need a shower in the 
morning anyway, so he did not bother with actually washing 
his hair.

After shutting the water off, Mulder slid the door open again 
and stepped out onto the bath mat, one hand reaching out and 
snagging one of the conveniently placed body-sized towels to 
the right of the stall.  He rubbed his hair quickly, and then 
wiped his body down before re-hanging the towel with slightly 
less finesse than the original job.  Returning to the sink for 
his clean boxers, which were lying on the counter, he donned 
them quickly.

Scooping up his discarded clothes, he flicked off the bathroom 
light and entered his room.  Dropping the clothes on the floor 
to join the previously shed items, he dug through his suitcase 
for his leather portfolio, which contained the new X-File on 
the missing women, and some articles he had printed at the 
office, plus a notepad and pen.  He tossed the portfolio onto 
his pillow, and then flipping the suitcase closed, hefted it 
off the bed to lay it on the floor near the bureau. 

Stretching out on his left side on the comfortable softness of 
the bed, he reached for the portfolio and unzipped it, removing 
the notepad and pen, and then the files. 

Within minutes, he was completely engrossed with his reading, 
pen held loosely and absently in his hand.

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Diary of Liza MacGregor
August 5, 1873

Rose had a girl, a beautiful baby girl.  She is named Marie Rose.

I looked upon the babe's innocent face, and thought only that 
she should have been mine.  My resentment grows, though I do yet 
suppress it.

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Starbuck House
Scully's Room
Saturday, May 21, 2000
7:30 AM


A persistent, loud knocking penetrated the haze of her sleep, 
and Scully rolled over reluctantly, forcing her eyes open.  
"Wha?" she mumbled, scrubbing both hands over her face.  
"Whozit?"

"Scully, it's me," she heard through the bathroom door.  Mulder.

Struggling to push the weighted mound of blankets off her body, 
she husked out, "Yeah, jus' a second, Mulder."  Finally 
succeeding in removing the covers, she swung her legs over the 
side, and stood, her body feeling sleep-shaky and weak.

Finding a robe did not even occur to her, she just shuffled 
over to the door and pulled it open.  Blinking slowly, she met 
his gaze.  His somewhat stunned gaze.

"Whatzamatter, Mulder?" she mumbled, her tongue feeling strangely 
thick.  Why the hell was she slurring everything?

"Um...Scully, you're not...uh, well Scully, you're not dressed 
yet." Her partner seemed to be almost stuttering; maybe it was 
something in the air, affecting them both.

Still surprised at the fact that it had taken almost a solid 
minute of knocking to wake Scully, Mulder couldn't believe his 
eyes.  His normally reserved, impeccably dressed partner was 
still sleep-disheveled, despite the hour of the morning.  She 
had an adorably bad case of bed-head, and her eyes were only 
half-open, her cheeks pale.  The unconcealed beauty mark on 
her upper lip drew attention to her full, pink lips.

And then there was her bed...attire.  In all his experiences 
of witnessing a pajama-clad Scully, and sadly there were really 
not that many, she had worn tailored two-piece pajamas, and for 
the majority of them, a robe as well.

The simple, white, sleeveless gown was quite...lovely.  And 
revealing.

Suddenly realizing he was peering down at her cleavage, Mulder 
jerked his eyes back up to her face, to witness her hand coming 
up to cover an enormous yawn.  Thankfully she did not seem to 
have noticed his interest in the front of her nightgown, and 
what was contained within.

"Sorry," Scully mumbled, feeling her cheeks go pink.  That 
yawn had snuck up out of nowhere, and she had barely managed 
to cover her mouth in time.  But it had served its purpose 
–- she was a bit more alert now.  Clearing her throat, her 
eyes skimming over his tall form, she added, "What time is 
it?"  She had a feeling it was later than she thought it 
might be. 

Mulder had obviously already showered and shaved, and was 
dressed in a form-fitting turtleneck in an olive green that 
accentuated his skin and eyes, and khaki pants.  Casual 
clothes that befitted a writer, she supposed.  He wore them 
well.  Though to be honest, Mulder looked good in any attire.

Then she became aware that she herself was less than adequately 
covered, her nightgown rather skimpy.  She crossed her arms 
self-consciously over her breasts, hoping the move looked 
nonchalant.

"Just past 7:30," Mulder informed her.  He kept his eyes on 
her face, having noticed her move to cover her breasts, and 
sensing she was a little embarrassed.  "Breakfast is served 
until nine, but I wanted to get to the Police Station early 
this morning, so we can take a look around after."  

He'd been up for almost two hours now, and had been waiting 
not quite patiently for Scully to get her sexy little 
assistant's butt out of bed.  Reviewing the scant details of 
the missing women again, moving the rental car into the parking 
area and drinking nearly a pot of coffee had only filled up a 
portion of the time.  Finally he had decided he'd better wake 
her before the morning was gone.

"I'm sorry, Mulder," Scully said apologetically.  "I don’t 
know why I'm so tired this morning."  So fuzzy-headed.  She 
could not recall waking once throughout the night, and was 
fairly certain her sleep had been deep and dreamless.  Was 
this the difference between their usual overnight fare, the 
cheap motel –- she had actually slept, and slept well?  It 
was a nice change, except for the fact that she had actually 
overslept, and felt like she could climb back in her bed and 
sleep longer still.  Shaking her head then, grimacing a little, 
she said, "I'll meet you downstairs in the dining area in half 
an hour, okay?"

Mulder couldn't resist lifting a hand to tap her cheek gently 
with his forefinger.  "Hey," he said softly.  "No problem, 
partner.  I did spring this trip on you on short notice, and 
we had a late flight."  He made his voice teasing for his last 
remark, hoping to wring a smile out of her.  "I know how cranky 
you can get if you're not in bed by ten o'clock."

She swatted at his hand, an actual grin, albeit a small one, 
crossing her lips, and Mulder grinned back at her.

"Get out of here before I really show you cranky!" she teased 
back, and both hands came to land lightly on his chest, giving 
him a tiny shove.

"Ooooh," he husked out.  "Promises, promises!"  With a waggle 
of his eyebrows, he turned and walked through the bathroom and 
out the other door, into his room.  "Half an hour," he called 
back, and pulled the door shut behind him.

Giving his room a critical glance, he decided some tidying up 
was in order.  Opening up the top drawer of the five-drawer 
bureau, he bent down and grabbed an armful of clean clothing 
from his suitcase and deposited it into the drawer.  The 
remainder of garments went into the second and third drawers.  
His Goretex jacket and sport coat, he hung in the tiny closet 
in one corner, along with a slightly creased pair of dress 
pants and a button-down shirt.  Next he put the dirty clothes 
from the floor into his suitcase for the time being, and used 
his foot to shove it out of sight under the bed.

After sliding his gun into the holster at his hip, he retrieved 
his leather jacket from the end of his bed and donned it, 
ensuring the gun was adequately covered.  He closed and locked 
his door, pocketing his key, and then headed down to the dining 
room to await Scully, whistling under his breath.

***

End Part 4

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