"A glooming peace this morning with it brings;
The sun, for sorrow will not show his head:
Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things:
Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished:
For never was a story of more woe
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo."

The closing music from Zeffirelli's production of "Romeo and Juliet" swelled and the credits started chasing each other up the screen of the Collinsport Cinema. The crowd of moviegoers was unusually silent as they slowly filed up the aisles to the exits.

Not a few people remained thoughtfully in their seats, among them Barnabas Collins and Julia Hoffman. Julia reached into her handbag for yet another tissue to dab at the tears that just didn't seem to want to stop flowing, only to find that she'd used the last one. Seeing her predicament, Barnabas reached into his jacket pocket and handed her his linen handkerchief.

"Might I remind you that it was your idea to come to this movie?" he said with a twinkle in his eye. "If I had known you were going to be so upset, I would have suggested another endeavour."

"I'm not upset," she sniffed. "It's just a sad story." She turned in her seat to glare at him. "And don't tell me you weren't affected. I heard what sounded like a sniffle coming from your direction earlier."

"I simply had something in my eye," he said lamely, and the twinkle in his eye expanded to a full grin. He took her elbow and guided her out of the theatre into the warm summer evening. His hand remained on her elbow as they strolled slowly up the street, past shops that had closed for the night. "It's still early yet," he said. "Would you care for a coffee? Or perhaps an ice cream?"

She shook her head. "Not here. Somehow, I just can't face the thought of a café full of laughing people right now. Why don't you come back to Collinwood with me? Everyone's out and we can have the drawing room to ourselves." She dabbed one last time at her eyes and handed him back his handkerchief. "I think Mrs. Johnson said there's some cherry pie left over from dinner."

"From the bakery, I hope?"

"Of course." Julia smiled in spite of her mood. "The last time Mrs. Johnson made cherry pie from scratch Amy bit down on a pit and needed a crown to repair the tooth she broke."

They laughed and walked the rest of the way to Barnabas' car in companionable silence.

* * * * *

Back at Collinwood, Barnabas took Julia's sweater and hung it by the door. She showed him into the drawing room. "I'll be just a few minutes while I make some coffee," she told him.

Barnabas wandered aimlessly about the room while he waited, studying first one, then another portrait of some Collins ancestor that he suspected only Elizabeth knew the names of. He paused at the window to admire the effect of the full moon on the ocean and the way it left a silvery wake upon the seemingly endless black sea. He turned back to the room. The baby grand piano in the corner drew him and he settled himself on the bench and lifted the lid. His fingers were poised over the keys while he tried to decide what to play, then a slow smile stole across his face.

He started with a minuet then eased into something originally written for harpsichord by Scarlatti. He was soon lost in the music and was just starting on a Strauss waltz when Julia returned. She almost dropped the tray she was carrying in astonishment.

"Where did you learn to play like that?" she asked as she set the coffee things on the table in front of the sofa.

Still playing he replied, "In my youth, it was as necessary to learn an instrument as it was to read. Almost every family we knew had a pianoforte, and many children were taught the harp, violin or flute." He stopped playing and went over to help her with the coffee. "I can still remember the raps on the knuckles from my piano teacher when I failed to play the scales to his satisfaction." He chuckled ruefully.

Julia sat on the sofa and sipped at her coffee. "They must have done some good," she said with a smile. "You play very well." Then a thought occurred to her. "That was 'The Blue Danube' you were playing just now. Wasn't Strauss after your time?"

He joined her on the sofa and stared down into the depths of his coffee cup. "After I was released," he said somberly, "I had many hours to fill between when the family retired and the dawn when I would retire. I soon grew bored with roaming about the countryside, even with the powers I acquired as a vampire. So I read books, newspapers and magazines to try to learn something of the world I found myself in. But in between, to soothe my soul, I would play the pianoforte."

Julia remembered the pianoforte in the drawing room of the Old House. It was a beautiful, delicate thing he kept covered with an ornate brocade cloth. She didn't think she'd ever heard it played.

"Reasoning I would need to familiarize myself with the music of this time as well," he continued, "I sent Willie to Bangor to purchase sheet music." He shook his head. "I soon grew to love Chopin, Beethoven, and Mendelssohn. But tell me, who or what are the Beatles, and why would anyone paint a submarine yellow?"

Julia stifled a laugh as her mind formed a picture of Barnabas seated at the fragile antique pianoforte, studiously picking out "Yellow Submarine". To distract herself from such an image, she rose.

"I forgot the pie in the kitchen on the counter," she told him as she started out of the room.

He instantly rose. "No, wait," he told her. "I'll get it." Before she had a chance to object, he had disappeared out the double doors and down the corridor to the kitchen.

Julia wandered over to the piano. She was constantly amazed at the depth and intelligence of the man who'd just left the room. To overcome what he'd faced, to blend in with people from a time not his own, and to face the foes they'd both had to face – she shook her head in wonderment. He could recite long passages of Shakespeare and Milton in a voice that turned her knees to jelly. And now she discovered he also had an amazing musical talent as well.

She idly ran her fingers along the keys, then without really thinking about it, started picking out a tune with her right hand. She played it again as she became more comfortable with where the notes were and had just begun the third repetition when she was startled by the sound of plates being dropped onto the coffee table. She whirled to see Barnabas, his handsome face drained of colour, staring at her.

"Barnabas!" she exclaimed, going to his side. "What's wrong?"

"That song." He sank onto the sofa. "Where did you hear that song?"

Julia was mystified by his behaviour. "I don't know," she replied. "It's just something that was in my head." She fussed over him until he waved her away. "Why would a simple song affect you so?"

He shook his head, irritated with himself. "It must have been my imagination," he told her. "I'm sure it was nothing."

Never one to let a problem go without wrestling it to the ground and solving it, Julia puzzled about the little tune she had played. Then suddenly, she snapped her fingers.

"I have it!" She headed out of the drawing room. "Wait here. I'll be right back."

She returned a few minutes later, bearing something in her hands, which she then placed on the coffee table. It was a small, glass music box with a golden lid. She carefully lifted the lid and a sprightly tune started to play.

"Enough." Barnabas reached out a shaking hand and gently closed the lid. He turned to her and his eyes were troubled. "Where did you get this?"

She was puzzled by his reaction. "It's been in my family for generations, passed down from mother to daughter. I've always thought of it as Oma's music box." She smiled in fond remembrance of her Austrian grandmother. "When we lived in Vienna when I was a little girl, my mother sometimes took me to visit Oma. I would sit in her lap while she played the music box for me and told me the most wonderful stories. When we left Austria for America, Oma insisted that my mother take it, so she could in turn give it to me. I think Oma must have known, somehow, that she would never see us again, for soon after we left, Hitler began his campaign to invade Austria."

"But where did your Oma get it?" he persisted.

Julia pursed her lips in thought. "I just assumed she got it from her mother, who got it from her mother." She paused as she considered his questions, then leaned back against the cushions of the sofa. "You know something about this, don't you?"

"Let me tell you a story," he said quietly. "I was twenty-one years old and Father had just sent Jeremiah and I on our first sea voyage alone. I suppose it was a way for us to discover our independence before we were to buckle down and work in earnest at the shipyards.

"We had no definite plans once we docked in France. We sent our servant to purchase a carriage in Cherbourg where the ship docked, then, after our considerable luggage had been stowed we drove to Paris. After a mere two days' stay, we simply told him to take the first road that looked like it headed away from Paris."

"Why didn't you want to stay?" Julia asked. "I always thought Paris was the ultimate destination for those traveling in Europe."

He chuckled. "We had no wish to do as everyone else expected us to do. We'd been taught French by our tutors, and Latin, of course. We had one tutor who was from Marseilles and spoke longingly of France whenever he had the chance. We'd both had our fill of his nostalgic reminiscences.

"So, we bade our servant to take us east, to Austria." He noted Julia's subtle reaction. "And in anticipation of your next question, we wanted to see the mountains." He found he had an appetite for cherry pie after all, and served himself a piece from where he'd so unceremoniously dropped it (unscathed) on the coffee table earlier.

"We quickly grew bored with the village of Innsbruck, so we headed to Vienna. Jeremiah and I were watching a troupe of street performers when I felt a hand reaching for my moneypurse. I whirled and caught a young gypsy woman in the act of picking my pocket. Jeremiah was incensed and would have turned her over to the authorities. I, however, was inclined to forgiveness, and persuaded him to let her go.

"But I found I could not stop thinking of her. Her grace and beauty captivated me, and her free, independent spirit fascinated me. I had to see her again. A day later I evaded Jeremiah and went back to the square where I had first seen her. She was still there, working the crowds. She was in the act of reaching for the purse of a fat merchant when I caught her arm and dragged her away."

He chuckled. "She was less than grateful that I'd saved her from her crime. She spat in my face, called me a filthy gadjo, and struggled to free herself from my grasp. I persuaded her to walk with me for a short distance. She calmed down and, somewhat to my surprise, consented."

Julia raised her eyebrows. "Really? It was my understanding that gypsies keep to themselves."

He nodded. "So I later learned. But I think, for some reason, she was just as eager to learn about me as I was to learn about her.

"I quickly learned the attitude of shopkeepers to gypsies. We went into an eating establishment, but the proprietor made us leave, stating he didn't serve 'her' kind there. She rose from her seat with a quiet dignity and exited the restaurant without a backward glance." He chuckled again. "But once we were out the door, she turned and spat on the threshold."

He was silent for a time as he finished his piece of pie and helped himself to another cup of coffee. When the silence had gone on for several minutes, Julia's curiosity asserted itself.

"So, what happened?" she asked with a hint of impatience.

"We fell in love," he said simply as he put his cup and saucer back on the table. "As unlikely as that sounds. We spent every minute we could together. I'd meet her in a street near the square where we'd first met, and we'd walk and talk for hours."

"But what about Jeremiah? How did you explain your absences to him?"

"Jeremiah was involved in his own relationship. The daughter of one of the merchants, I believe. We had an unspoken agreement that neither of us would ask about the business of the other, and that what my father didn't know wouldn't hurt him."

Barnabas gently picked the little music box up from the table. Cradling it carefully in one hand he lifted the lid with the other and listened to the gay little melody. He continued with his story as the music continued to play.

"I wanted to give her a present – something unique. She already had so much jewellery. And how could I buy a perfume when her own natural fragrance was so intoxicating? All the flowers in the world were at her feet when her family travelled.

"So I went to a clockmaker and told him I wanted a music box to be made. I even wrote the melody myself and helped him to devise the intricate machinery that made it play. When the music box was ready I met her in our usual spot and presented it to her. She was so happy she jumped up and kissed me, then did a little dance so her bright red skirt and colourful petticoats swirled about her slim ankles. I was utterly entranced. I caught her to me and was about to kiss her when she was abruptly torn from my grasp.

"It was her father, and I have never seen someone so enraged. She screamed at me to run. I wanted to stay to protect her, but she assured me she was in no danger. I rather think it might have looked to him as if I was molesting his daughter. Nothing could be further from my mind. But I ran, to save her, not myself.

"I went back to find her the next day, but she was gone. I enquired of the townspeople who did business in and about the square, and they told me the gypsies had moved on. I tried desperately to find out where they had gone, but I never saw her again."

The music box continued to tinkle to itself as he continued. "I never felt that way about anyone again. Father tried to get me to marry, but it wasn't until I met Josette that I was able to, at least partially, get her out of my mind."

"And your gypsy kept the music box?" Julia asked softly.

"Yes. She had it in her hands when her father grabbed her." He paused as he conjured up a picture of her in his mind. "She had hair as black as a raven's wing. Her face was oval, with a delicately pointed chin, and her cheekbones were high and strong. But it was her eyes that captivated me. She had the most incredible green eyes, like emeralds. They were wide and expressive, almost slanted…" He stopped abruptly and stared her as if seeing her face, really seeing it for the very first time. "Good lord, it couldn't be," he breathed.

"What?" she asked.

"Julia, your hobby is genealogy, isn't it?" he suddenly asked.

"Yes," she replied, somewhat mystified at this sudden turn in the conversation.

"Have you researched your own family's genealogy?"

"Of course. I've traced my ancestors back to the mid-sixteenth century."

He closed the lid of the music box. Then, with one hand on the gold lid and its fittings and the other on the glass base, he twisted. Julia uttered a small cry as the music box came apart into two pieces in Barnabas' hands. He set the lid down on the coffee table, then did something she couldn't quite see. The mechanical works slid out of the glass sleeve into his waiting hand. He then set the glass down on the table and turned the works over so she could see the slightly tarnished brass base. Engraved there, where no one could see it unless they knew what to look for, was a name, "Katje Romescu".

It was Julia's turn to pale. Her hand went to her throat in an automatic gesture of distress, then she rose shakily from the sofa and fumbled in her purse, which she'd left on the floor. She found a cigarette and tried to light it but her hands shook so badly she couldn't hold the lighter steady. Barnabas carefully set the rest of the music box on the table, then went to her. He took the lighter from her hands and lit the cigarette for her.

She was silent for several minutes as she took in the implications of what he'd shown her. Barnabas resumed his seat on the sofa and watched her as she paced about the drawing room. He had an idea of what she was going to say, but he allowed her the time to marshal her thoughts so she could tell him in her own way.

Finally, she stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray and resumed her seat beside him.

"You must be wondering why that name affected me so strongly," she said finally.

He nodded silently and took her hand in encouragement.

"Katje Romescu was my mother's ancestor," she said in a hoarse whisper. "She was a gypsy who married a gadjo, or non-gypsy, named Karl Schmidt – a fabric merchant. Her family declared her marime. Outcast."

They were silent as they considered the implications.

"Did Katje's descendants stay in Vienna?" Barnabas asked finally.

"They remained in either Germany or what's now Austria. Oma's parents moved to Vienna from Heidelburg," she replied. She took a deep breath and voiced what had been troubling her. "Did you and Katje – did you ever –" She blushed furiously, unable to finish the sentence.

He put his arm around her and drew her close in an effort to calm her agitation. "You're wondering if, perchance, you are my descendant as well?" he asked in a warm, gentle voice.

She nodded mutely.

"Our relationship never progressed that far," he told her. "But I loved Katje very much, and I sometimes wonder what my life would have been like had her father not taken her away." He put his hands on her shoulders and moved her away from him so he could look at her.

"I wonder ..." The thought he was almost afraid to voice was too great in its implications for him to remain seated, so he got up and started pacing the room.

"Barnabas, what are you thinking?" Julia asked him.

"Julia, maybe I've – we've been given a second chance." At her questioning glance he stopped pacing and knelt in front of her. "Julia, I know I've been – that I haven't treated you very well." Julia started to reply, but Barnabas held up a hand to forestall her interruption. "I know how you feel, and I've used your feelings for my own gain. The only thing I can do is ask your forgiveness.

"But maybe, discovering that you're Katje's descendant, means that whatever powers govern our little lives intended for us to be together all along."

"Barnabas, you're talking about pre-destination and fate. I don't believe that –" She was unable to continue because Barnabas silenced her with a gentle kiss. Her eyes went wide with surprise.

"Ever the pragmatist," he chided gently. "Even after all we've seen. What I've been trying to say in my clumsy way, is that this discovery makes me realize what I should have known all along." He took her hands in his. "I love you, Julia."

She removed her hands from his grasp. "Because I look like Katje? How do I know that I'm not just another Josette substitute – or maybe I should say Katje substitute?"

He was hurt by her remark but remained calm. "I can understand your fears. But don't you see? I assisted in the creation of that music box. I wrote the music it plays. I engraved Katje's name in a place no one would think to look. I gave it to the woman I loved, and it found its way into your hands. It remained unharmed even though a gypsy's life was not an easy one. It remained unharmed through wars and persecutions. It still plays today, even through countless family moves and relocations. Now here it is, on a new continent, and it has found its way back to me, through you. Don't you see, my dear, that it isn't mere coincidence?

"Katje was the first love of my life, but she is long gone. As is Josette. They are both a large part of what made me who I am. But you have taught me that my life is in the present. And there is no one in the present that I'd rather share it with than you. This little music box only reinforced that to me just now."

Julia stared down at her hands. "You've given me a lot to think about, Barnabas. I've waited a very long time to hear you say those three words." She looked up at him and her eyes were enormous and swimming with tears. "But how can I believe in fate? How can I believe that a little family heirloom is the means by which we were meant to be together?"

He reached out and gently smoothed away the tears that were starting to find their way down her cheeks. "Because I am here," he replied softly. "What are the odds that something created two hundred years ago would find its way, through the descendants of its original recipient, to its creator? I have to believe, Julia, that the pain and torment I underwent for so many years had more of a purpose than just to satisfy the vengeance of a jealous witch. And the proof is here, lying on the coffee table."

He picked up the pieces of the music box and deftly fitted them back together, then replaced it on the table and lifted the lid so the tune was again free to dance in the air about them.

Julia silently regarded what she still thought of Oma's music box for what seemed to Barnabas like a very long time. At last she took Barnabas' hands in hers and drew him back to her on the couch. She brushed her hand down his face and rested it on his cheek. Her eyes, still shining with unshed tears, were on him as she regarded him with quiet joy. "I believe," she said simply.

The words were barely out of her mouth when Barnabas took her in his arms for a deep, passionate kiss as Oma's music box continued to fill the room with its music.

THE END